MAKf  &ONCUB£  PMKElt 


NEW 

MONOLOGUES 

AND  DIALECT 

STORIES 


A  collection  of  new  stories,  monologues,  poems  and  acting 
plays,  published  for  the  first  time.  Negro  stories,  Irish  dia- 
lect stories,  humorous,  pathetic  and  dramatic  recitations, 
child  poems,  bits  of  delightful  sentimental  poetry,  depict 
every  phase  of  life  in  this  unique  collection.  .'. 


By  MARY  MONCURE  PARKER 

Author  of 

'A  Day  at  the  Know-it-all  Woman's  Club,"  "When  Your  Wife's  Away, 

"Powder  and  Patches,"  "A  Quiet  Evening  at  Home,"  "The 

Princess  Innocence,"  "Love  Behind  the  Scenes,  "etc. 


PUBLISHERS 

FREDERICK  J.    DRAKE  &  CO. 
CHICAGO,   U.  S.  A. 


Copyright  1908 

By 
FREDERICK   J.   DRAKE   &   CO. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


SRLF 
URL 


INDEX 


At  the  Reception 42 

Bein'  Neighborly 7 

Bob's  Lament 75 

Bride  and  the  Home-Maker,  The 181 

Call  of  the  Lord,  The 124 

Canoe  and  the  Girl,  The 26 

Change  of  Front,  A 11 

Cheerful  Liar,  A 141 

Colonial   Dream,  A j 187 

Cupid  to  Win ! 103 

Do  You  Believe  in  Fairies? 50 

Elder's  Drink  of  Cider,  The 63 

Face  in  the  Smoke,  The 33 

Fascinatin'  Man,  A 20 

George's  Soliloquy 23 

Gray  Goose,  The 77 

Hustlin'   Hi 10 

Leah    52 

Lily  Bell's  'Finity 47 

Little   Mars   Richard 84 

Low-backed  Car-up-to-Date,  The 18 

Lucindy  Jones  and  the  Directry  Gown 110 

Lullaby,    A 14 

Maggie  McCarthy  and  the  Servant  Girl  Problem 120 

Maggie  McCarthy  and  the  Beauty  Parlor 155 

Maggie's  Yellow  Dago t 15 

Mammy's    Cabin 74 

Mammy   Liza -. 172 

Mrs.   Barker's   Spirit 137 


Page 

Mrs.  Gadabout's  Busy  Day 92 

Muse  Rebellious,  The. . , 136 

Not  Without  Honor 114 

Old  Dad  59 

On  the  Summer  Resort  Porch  with  Johnny 29 

Patient  Tommy   34 

Poor  Woman    154 

Quality  of  Mercy,  The 145 

Quarrel,  The 186 

Sentimental  Si   58 

Snakes— The  Soldier    35 

Somebody  Just  Like  You 22 

Soul  of  the  Rich  Man,  The 116 

Spring  Song,  A 41 

Transplanted  Romance,  A 67 

Truthful  James 46 

Two  Heads  are  Better  Than  One 158 

When  the  Jimpsons  Have  Cold  Meat 55 

Widow  Flightly's  Goodbye  Call,  The 169 


BEIN'  NEIGHBORLY. 

ELL,  well,  Mandy,  you  pore  thing !  La 
sakes!  It  do  seem  awful  to  have  you 
layin'  up  here  in  bed  sufferin'  so  with 
the  rheumatiz  jest  at  harvestin'  time, 
too,  when  Hiram  needs  your  help  so 
and  it'll  cost  so  much  to  git  an  extry 
hired  girl  to  help,  an'  Hiram  havin' 
such  bad  luck  too, — to  have  his  best 
black  horse  die.  There,  now,  keep  under  the  kivers. 
What  you  jumpin'  up  fur?  You  hadn't  heard  it?  Hiram 
didn't  tell  you?  Well,  it's'  true,  an'  the  bay  mare's 
sick.  Troubles  never  come  singly,  do  they?  My,  I 
sez  to  Job  this  mornin',  Job,  sez  I,  the  Mason's  is 
havin'  so  much  trouble  I'm  goin'  to  run  over  an'  see 
Mandy  this  very  mornin'.  'Tain't  more'n  neighborly  to 
ask  how  she  is  an'  see  if  I  can't  do  something,  though, 
dear  me,  suz,  I'm  so  busy  I  can't  hardly  get  breathin' 
time  myself,  puttin'  up  fruit  an'  the  harvesters  comin' 
next  week, — but  I  left  John's  wife  to  do  the  dishes  an' 
tidy  up  while  I  come  over.  Looks  like  you  needed 
somebody  in  your  kitchen,  land !  it  don't  look  much  like 
it  do  when  you're  up  an'  around,  Mandy — Hiram 
walkin'  'round  your  clean  kitchen  with  his  muddy 
boots — an'  you  allus  so  particular  an'  that  girl  o'  your'n 
dawdlin'  an'  dawdlin'  like  she  had  the  hull  day  for 
dishwashin'  an'  she's  so  careless.  Do  you  know, 
Mandy,  she  broke  that  best  chiny  bowl  o'  your'n — the 
one  with  the  wild  roses  that  you  bought  to  the  fair  at 
Libertytown  las'  year.  Now  don't  git  narvous,  it's 


done  now  an'  there's  no  use  worryin'.  She  had  the  sun 
streamin'  in  on  your  new  red  rug  by  the  settin'  room 
winder,  but  I  pulled  the  curtain — it  'peared  to  me 
though  like  the  rug  had  faded  considerable.  An'  the 
children  was  in  the  parlor  as  I  come  by  foolin'  with 
the  wax  cross  on  the  table — they  had  the  glass  kiver 
off  and  some  of  the  leaves  had  dropped, — and  the  album 
was  open  on  the  floor.  I  said,  My  land,  Mandy'll  have 
shivers  up  an'  down  her  spine  if  she  knows  it,  and  she 
sick,  too.  Dear,  dear,  things  gets  awful  upset  when  a 
body's  ailin'.  By  the  way,  Mandy,  you  want  to  be 
awful  careful  not  to  let  that  rheumatiz  git  to  your 
heart — 'cause  you'll  go  like  a  flash,  without  a  minute's 
warnin'.  You  know  Silas  Anson's  brother's  wife,  she 
that  was  Mary  Eliza  Baxter,  well  she  had  a  cousin 
that  died  jest  that  way.  She  was  talkin'  jest  like  you 
an'  me  are  right  now  and  she  keeled  right  over  and 
died  'fore  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson.  What's  the 
matter?  In  pain?  It's  an  awful  painful  disease.  Some- 
times folks  gits  so  crippled  up  they  never  do  walk 
straight  agin.  Don't  you  let  it  git  fastened  on  you. 
What  are  you  takin'?  Suthin'  Dr.  Barnes  give  you? 
Why  don't  you  have  the  new  doctor  to  Liberty  town? 
He  knows  suthin'.  Dr.  Barnes  is  gittin'  too  old.  What, 
you've  allus  had  him?  Well,  maybe  that's  why  you've 
had  so  much  sickness.  A  good  many  of  his  patients 
has  died  lately.  I  brought  over  some  liniment.  Jest 
rub  some  of  that  on  your  jints  and  I  bet  it'll  do  won- 
ders. Mrs>  Mitchell  saw  me  comin'  an'  she  called  out 
to  tell  you  that  she  had  a  uncle  who  had  the  rheuma- 
tiz pretty  bad  and  he  took  castor  oil  and  quinine.  My 
grandmother  used  to  use  gum  goacum  and  gin — a  pint 
of  gin  and  I  forgit  how  much  gum  goacum,  but  it  done 
her  a  world  of  good,  but  I  believe  she  died  not  long 
after,  come  to  think.  Say,  Mandy,  I'm  sorry  you  can't 
go  to  church  at  Barton  Center  Sunday — there's  goin' 
to  be  a  big  funeral.  Didn't  you  hear  Milly  Williams 
was  dead?  Yes,  'twas  pretty  sudden.  She  wa'nt  sick 


very  long.  By  the  way,  she  had  Dr.  Barnes  a  doctorin' 
her.  That  jest  goes  to  prove  what  I  said.  Everybody 
I  know  is  goin'  except  your  sister  Jane.  Jane  allus 
looks  on  the  dark  side  of  things  and  she  said  you'd 
been  so  sick,  nobody  could  fell  what  might  happen, 
and  I  asked  her  if  that  was  the  reason  she  bought  that 
black  calico  with  the  white  spots  to  Bronson's  store, 
Saturday,  and  she  only  sighed  and  wiped  her  eyes. 
But  don't  you  worry,  Mandy,  'cause  Jane  allus  looks 
on  the  dark  side.  My  land  sakes,  what  time  did  that 
clock  strike?  It  ain't  noon?  Lawsy!  dear  me  suz!  I 
come  over  to  help  the  hired  girl,  but  I've  spent  all  my 
time  with  you.  Well,  a  body  gits  awful  blue  and  lone- 
some bein'  sick,  an'  it's  pretty  brightenin'  to  have  some 
one  to  talk  to.  Well,  it's  quite  a  walk  home  an'  so  I'll 
jest  run  down  an'  eat  with  Hiram  an'  the  children.  I 
smelled  berry  pies  cookin'  an'  it's  give  me  an  appetite. 
I  would  stay  and  help  with  the  dishes  but  I  must  go 
back — there's  lots  of  things  to  do  to  hum. 

Now,  Mandy,  do  hurry  up  and  git  well.  I'll  run  over 
agin  real  soon  and  cheer  you  up.  There  ain't  nothin' 
like  bein'  neighborly. 


HUSTLING  HI. 

Of  all  the  darn  fool  signs  I  know 
In  this  world  of  work  and  hurry, 

Is  that  blame  motto  stickin'  'round 
That  says  to  you,  "Don't  worry." 

Why,  you've  got  to  keep  a  hustlin' 

Just  every  single  minute, 
In  this  fast  day  of  push  and  rush, 

Or  else  you  won't  be  in  it. 

The  tramp  don't  worry,  nor  the  man 

That's  always  just  a  settin' 
From  morn  to  night  in  the  corner  store 

On  a  dry  goods  box  a  bettin' 

That  he  can  run  the  hull  blame  show, 

The  government,  finances; 
The  reason  he  wa'nt  president, 

Was  'count  o'  circumstances. 

Of  course  it  was,  we  all  know  that, 
'Twas  'cause  he  couldn't  hurry; 

If  you  set  in  the  wagon  with  the  band, 
You've  got  to  WORK  and  WORRY. 


to 


A  CHANGE  OF  FRONT. 
"Miss  Sofy  Interviews  Her  Laundress." 

"Good  mawnin',  Miss  Sofy.  Yes'm,  I  am  a  little 
late  dis  mawnin'  'bout  comin'  to  wash,  but  I  done  had 
de  misery  in  my  haid  jes'  poy'ful.  Yes'm,  I'm  sub- 
jective to  dem  alimonies.  Yes'm.  Runs  in  our 
fam'ly.  But  I  say  I  ain't  gwine  to  disappoint  Miss 
Sofy.  No,  ma'am.  So  I  come  over  'bout  eight.  What's 
dat?  Ten  o'clock?  Why,  Miss  Sofy!  Lawd!  Yo'  all's 
clock  is  sho  wrong.  What's  dat?  Couldn't  pay  me 
fur  a  whole  day's  work?  Why,  Miss  Sofy!  Yo'  all  is 
sho  gittin'  as  close  as  my  ole  man — and  Lawd  knows  he 
hoi's  on  to  a  dime  till  it  plum  rusticates  in  his  hand. 
What  you  say,  Miss  Sofy?  You  want  to  come  heah 
an'  talk  wid  me  dis  mawnin'.  Yes'm — jes  let  me  wring 
out  dis  shirt.  What's  dat?  De  clothes  looks  torn? 
Does  I  puts  anything  in  to  whiten  'em?  How  you 
talks,  Miss  Sofy! 

"S'pose  I'd  do  sech  a  injustious  thing?  What's  dat 
smell?  I  don'  smell  nothin*  an'  I  got  a  right  sharp 
smeller,  too.  Yes'm  I  has,  fo'  sho.  Chloride  of  lime? 
In  de  clothes?  What  kind  of  a  pusson  does  you  think 
I  am,  Miss  Sofy?  What's  dat  empty  tin?  Dat?  Oh, 
yes,  I  do  rekomembers  I  done  got  some  from  de  grocery 
to  put  down  in  de  alley  kase  dar's  a  dead  cat  out  dar 
an'  I  allus  did  have  de  mos'  sententious  nose.  Kin 
smell  any  bad  smells  a  mile  off.  I  keep  dat  lime  wid 
me  allus  jes'  fo'  sech  purposes.  Yes'm. 

"Somethin'  else  you  wants  to  say?  Yes'm.  Go  on, 
Miss  Sofy.  You  know  I  jes'  loves  to  heah  you  talk. 
Your  voice  is  so  melodious.  Don't  you  sing?  You 
don't?  When  you  talk  I'd  jes'  swar  you  was  a  singer. 


Yes'm.  Yo  mouf  is  pretty  an'  roun'  an'  rosy  jes  like 
a  singer's  mouf.  Yes'm. 

"What's  dat?  You's  bin  missin'  handkerchiefs?  Now 
ain't  dat  queeah?  I  thought  I  missed  some  myse'f  las' 
week.  Somebody  mus'  jes  pick  'em  off  de  line  when  I 
ain't  lookin'.  Maybe  it's  dat  washwoman  nex'  do'. 
My  line  hangs  pretty  close  to  dat  fence  and  some  of 
dem  niggahs  is  pow'ful  light-fingered.  Can't  trust  'em 
nohow.  No,  ma'am.  What's  dat  you  say?  Oh! 
What's  dis  stickin'  in  my  waist?  Oh!  Dem's  some 
handkerchiefs  I'm  jes'  goin'  to  wash.  I  often  puts  'em 
in  dah  fo'  convenience.  An'  dis  breast  pin?  Oh — I 
foun'  dat  stickin'  in  yo'  shirtwaist  dis  mawnin'  an'  I 
was  jest  goin'  to  call  you  when  you  come  down.  Seem 
like  dis  heah  min'  readin'  dat  you  heahs  so  much  'bout 
do  sho  have  somethin'  in  it.  Kase  my  min'  an'  yo' 
min'  was  sho  runnin'  along  in  de  same  circumlocution. 
Yes'm. 

"How's  dat?  I  didn't  heah  good?  You  know  ever 
since  I  done  had  de  tyfum  fever  when  I  was  a  chile  de 
lef  lobelia  of  my  ear  has  been  gone.  Yes'm.  An'  de 
doctor  done  prognosticated  at  dat  time,  dat  some  day 
I  war  lible  to  lose  de  right  lobelia,  an'  den  good-bye 
to  my  hearin'.  Yes,  ma'am.  Oh,  yes'm,  I  understand 
you  now.  You  bin  missin'  soap.  Well,  now,  ain't 
dat  queeah?  I  jes'  knowed  dem  rats  in  yo'  pantry  was 
eatin'  dat  soap.  You  ought  to  do  somethin'  fo'  dem 
rats.  Dat's  one  thing  I  brung  dis  chloride  of  lime  fur 
to  sprinkle  aroun'  fur  dem  rats. 

"What's  you  sayin'.  Miss  Sofy?  Be  keerful  of  dat 
lace  skirt !  Now  de  ideah  of  tellin'  me,  what  wuks  fo' 
de  finis'  fam'lies,  to  be  keerful!  Why,  lace  skirts  an' 
fine  clothes  is  my  specialties.  Yes'm.  You  looks  so 
sweet  in  yo'  clothes,  too,  Miss  Sofy.  Ain't  ev'body  kin 
sot  off  clothes  as  you  does.  No,  ma'am.  Some  folks 
looks  like  de  wrath  o'  Gawd  whatever  dey  puts  on,  but 
you  has  de  ve'y  air  of  a  queen.  Yes'm.  What's  dat? 
If  I  talks  less  an'  wuk  more' !  Why,  ev'body  knows  I 


12 


ain't  no  talker  an'  dat  I  wuks  my  fingers  off  an  scrapes 
my  flesh  clar  froo  to  de  bone  when  I  gits  started. 
How's  dat?  You  don't  want  me  aftah  dis  week,  an' 
you  ain't  gwine  to  pay  me  fur  a  full  day? 

"Well,  I  jes'  gwine  to  say  dat  I  quits  right  heah  an' 
now,  an'  de  nex'  time  I  does  washin'  it's  gwine  to  be 
fo'  de  bes'  people  an'  not  fo'  no  plain-faced,  spindle- 
shanked  po'  white  trash."  . 


is 


A  LULLABY. 

Oh,  the  soft  little  cheek  that  is  pressed  close  to  mine, 

And  the  large  eyes  so  limpid  and  blue ; 
The  pink  rose  leaf  fingers  and  dimpled  fat  hands 

Belong,  my  dear  baby,  to  you. 

We'll  not  mind  the  storm  that  goes  raging  outside, 

But  I'll  rock  and  I'll  rock  you  away, 
To  that  quaint,  dainty  fairyland,  dreamland  we  know, 

Where  the  dear  little  dream  babies  play. 

I'll  clasp,  clasp  you  close,  as  we  drift,  drift  along, 

So  safe  from  all  fears  and  alarms. 
\h,  baby,  my  love,  see  how  strong  mother  is, 

Why,  she  holds  the  whole  world  in  her  arms. 


14 


MAGGIE'S  YELLOW  DAGO. 

'Shure  'twas  all  along  if  that  yillow  dago  of  an  Eye- 
talian  that  it  happened,  and  the  saints  presarve  us, 
Mary  O'Sullivan,  it's  Maggie  McCarthy  that's  laughin' 
yit,  when  she  thinks  of  the  ludiculness  of  the  hull  af- 
fair, an'  laugh  she  will  about  that  same  till  Kingdom 
come.  You  see,  my  missus  has  been  away  visitin',  and 
lavin'  me  to  run  the  house  for  siveral  wakes.  Well, 
Mister  Jones  is  a  nice,  quoit  like  sort  of  a  mon  an'  it's 
his  own  business  that  he  attinds  to,  but  them  byes  is 
holy  terrors !  "Pis  not  me  they're  afther  botherin',  for 
I  told  them,  sez  I,  'tis  a  sthraight  tip  I'm  givin'  you, 
that  the  first  bye  that  meddles  round  the  kitchen,  or 
gives  me  sass,  that  minit  I  up  an'  lave,  and  you  have 
no  wan  to  do  the  cookin',  so  it's  as  make  as  Moses  they 
be  to  Maggie  McCarthy.  Well,  Mr.  Jones  is  at  work 
and  the  byes  is  at  school  all  day,  so  I've  things  pretty 
much  to  myself  until  wan  day  in  comes  the  yillow 
Eyetalian  dago  through  the  back  gate  an'  on  his  head 
he  had  a  tray  wid  some  of  them  plaster  statoos  of  in- 
dacent  lookin'  women  and  childer,  some  of  'em  widout 
a  stitch  of  clothes  on,  an's  sez  he,  "Buy,  lady?"  "No, 
gwan  'bout  yer  business,"  sez  I.  I've  no  time  to  fool 
wid  you,"  and  very  foolishlike,  Mary  O'Sullivan,  sez  I, 
"there's  no  wan  home."  "The  Missis?"  says  he,  "she 
be's  out  of  town,"  sez  I.  Well,  wid  that  he  stayed  and 
stayed  and  smiled  and  smiled  the  sicklinest  grin  an' 
said  "pretty"  to  me,  and  "me  luf  you,"  an'  sich  foolish 
truck.  I  was  mad  enuf  to  bate  his  brains  out,  that  is 
if  he  had  any,  which  thot  same  I  doubt.  Well,  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  he  came  ivery  day  an'  I  was  that 
sick  and  tired  of  the  way  he  kept  botherin'  at  the  back 

15 


gate,  that  I  thought  I'd  tell  Mr.  Jones,  though  not 
likin'  to  giv  him  thrubble,  he  havin'  bother  enuf  of  his 
own,  God  knows,  wid  them  byes,  whin  I  was  saved 
the  thrubble  and  all  along  of  a  divvil  of  a  shape.  Wan 
day,  'twas  on  a  Saturday  marnin',  them  byes,  brought 
the  quarest  lookin'  baste  into  the  yard  wid  long  wool 
an'  the  wickedest  lookin'  horns  and  the  squint  of  the 
divvil  in  his  eye.  Says  I,  holy  mother  of  marcy,  pre- 
sarve  us'  phwat's  thot?  "Tis  a  shape,  says  Bill.  "A 
shape,"  sez  I,  "oh,  you  mean  Mary's  little  lamb,"  sez  I, 
sarcastic  like.  "No,  a  corset  shape,"  sez  Bob.  "  'Tis 
shure  it's  no  corset  I  see  on  him,"  sez  I,  "an'  shure 
you  ain't  goin'  to  kape  the  baste,  fer  if  you  do — out 
goes  Maggie  McCarthy,"  an'  they  begins  to  whadle. 
"Oh,  Maggie,  we'll  niver  let  him  bother,  we'll  kape  him 
in  the  barn  and  tie  him  up,"  sez  they.  "He'll  be  atin' 
my  clothes  off  the  line,"  sez  I.  "No,  honest  he  won't," 
sez  they,  "an'  if  you  don't  scold,  thin  pa'll  let  us  kape 
him."  "I'll  see,"  sez  I,  "an'  if  he  bothers,  out  goes  him 
or  Maggie  McCarthy.  Well,  'twas  little  work  I  did 
thot  day,  Mary  O'Sullivan,  for  watchin'  thim  byes  an' 
thot  imp  of  a  shape.  Bill  wud  hold  him  and  Bob  stand 
by  the  side  of  the  barn,  an'  would  jump  and  tormint 
the  baste  an'  thin  Bill  wud  let  him  go  and  on  would 
come  Misther  Shape  and  whin  he  got  most  up  to  Bob, 
the  youngster  wud  jump  wan  side  and  the  shape  would 
nearly  butt  out  his  brains,  if  he  had  any,  (an'  thot  same 
I  doubt  about  shape  an'  Eyetalians),  agin  the  side  o'  the 
barn.  But  by-an'-by,  luckey  for  me  an'  my  wurk,  they 
got  tired  and  wint  away,  lavin'  Misther  Shape  in  the 
barn.  Well,  Mary  O'Sullivan,  I  was  stirrin'  up  my 
Sunday  cake  whin  who  should  come  into  the  yard  but 
the  yillow  Eyetalian  dago  wid  the  tray  of  indacent, 
images  on  his  head  and  a  foolish  grin  on  his  face. 
"Pretty  lady,  buy?"  sez  he.  "Gwan  'bout  your  busi- 
ness," sez  I.  "Luf  you,"  sez  he.  "I'll  knock  the  head 
off  you,"  sez  I,  very  ladylike,  but  emphatic,  an'  just 
thin,  what  do  you  think,  Mary  O'Sullivan,  the  barn  door 

10 


bursts  open  and  out  comes  that  corset  shape.  The 
dago  stood  lookin'  at  me  wid  his  back  to  the  barn  and 
his  fate  wide  apart  to  balance  his  tray,  an'  before  he 
knew  what  had  happened  him  that  shape  had  run  be- 
chune  his  legs  an'  there  he  was  astraddle  of  the  baste 
wid  a  face  on  him  as  white  as  a  shate,  instid  o'  yillow. 
Round  an'  round  the  yard  wint  the  shape  an'  the  Eye- 
talian,  fur  all  the  wurld,  like  them  mirry  go  rounders 
at  the  park  an'  the  indacent  images  flyin'  all  over  the 
yard,  for  the  Eyetalian  was  holdin'  onto  the  shape's 
horns  wid  wan  hand.  Laugh?  I  wus  doublin'  up  me 
sides,  and  the  more  I  laughed,  the  more  bad  wurds  wud 
that  yillow  dago  say  and  they  wan't  in  Eyetalian, 
either.  Well,  by-an'-by,  Misther  Shape  wint  buttin' 
into  the  side  of  the  barn  and  off  flew  the  dago  on  his 
head.  Up  he  jumps  and  stood  shakin'  his  fist  first  at 
me  an'  then  at  the  criter  until  Misther  Shape  starts  fer 
him  agin,  an'  he  grabs  his  tray  and  runs  out  of  the 
gate  loike  mad.  An'  thot's  the  raisin,  Mary  O 'Sullivan, 
the  yillow  Eyetalian  dago  don't  come  around  wid  his 
indacent  images  no  more.  An'  it's  the  blissid  truth  I'm 
tellin'  you  this  very  day. 


17 


"THE  LOW-BACKED   CAR— UP  TO   DATE.'5 

With  apologies  to  Samuel  Lover. 
When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 
'Twas  on  a  racing  day, 
An  automobile  she  guided  and  sat 
Upon  the  cushions  gay. 
Though  all  sorts  of  rigs  went  spinning  by 
Bedecked  with  ladies  fine, 
Not  one  was  there  that  could  compare 
With  this  charming  girl  divine. 
As  she  sat  in  the  automobile 
The  man  at  the  gate,  so  leal 
Ne'er  asked  for  her  ticket 
But  just  stood  like  a  picket 
And  looked  after  the  automobile. 


Sweet  Peggy  around  her  automobile 

Has  strings  of  dangling  hearts 

And  Cupid  from  that  juggernaut  car 

Sends  scores  of  shining  darts, 

While  she  upon  the  cushioned  seat 

Sits  mild  as  a  turtle  dove 

With  none  else  there,  I  do  declare, 

But  the  little  God  of  Love. 

While  she  sits  in  her  automobile 

Her  lovers  sigh  and  feel 

That  life  without  Peggy 

Would  be  rather  dreggy 

As  she  sits  in  her  automobile. 

18 


Oh  I'd  rather  own  that  automo', 

With  Peggy  at  my  side 

Than  a  coach  and  four  and  gold  galore 

With  another  for  my  bride ; 

For  I'd  have  to  handle  the  ribbons 

Which  wouldn't  be  to  my  taste; 

While  Peggy  could  guide  the  blessed  machine 

With  my  arm  about  her  waist. 

As  we  rode  in  the  automobile 

What  joy  through  my  being  would  steal! 

Oh  my  heart  could  but  say 

Thrice  happy  are  they 

Who  court  in  an  automobile. 


19 


A  FASCINATIN'  MAN. 

Yes'm,  Mis'  Alice,  I  done  come  back  from  the  funeral. 
Lawsy,  honey,  it  was  sumpin  grand.  Sam  Watson  sho 
did  hump  himself  to  get  his  wife  buried  mos'  pros- 
perious.  Yes,  'deed  he  did.  Look  almos'  like  he  sho 
enuf  glad  to  get  rid  of  her. 

What's  dat? 

Well,  Mis'  Alice,  I  don't  mean  no  harm,  but  you 
know  Sam  allus  was  a  no  count  niggah  and  nevah  had 
nothin'  laid  by.  Tehee !  Tehee !  What  am  I  laughin' 
at?  Why  a  joke  jes'  come  to  me,  Mis'  Alice.  It  sho 
did — dat  Mahaly  am  the  fust  thing  dat  Sam  evah  laid 
away.  I  'spec  de  money  she  done  earn  10'  washin'  was 
what  paid  fur  de  funeral.  Why  dey  wuz  five  carriages 
— yes'am,  five ;  and  lots  of  silver  on  de  casket — yes'am, 
and  flowahs.  Whoopee,  chile!  Stars  and  crowns,  po' 
Mahaly  didn't  git  no  stars  nor  crowns  either  fur  dat 
mattah,  till  she  died — mo'  like  crosses  done  come  to  dat 
po'  soul  fur  sho. 

Sech  moanin'  an'  singin'  an'  sighin'  at  de  funeral — 
she  suttinly  went  out  of  the  wol'  in  gran'  shape.  She 
did  fo'  sho.  Po'  Sam!  You  know,  Mis'  Alice,  I  felt 
awful  sorry  fo'  dat  niggah.  He  carried  on  so  an'  seem 
like  nothin'  would  comfort  him.  Yes'am,  it  sho  did. 
Well,  I  couldn't  stan'  it,  so  I  went  over  an'  sot  down 
beside  him.  Sam,  says  I,  don't  take  on  so.  Mahaly 
am  better  off.  In  all  probableness  her  wings  even  now 
am  rusticatin'  through  the  pearly  gates.  You  know 
you  wouldn't  call  her  back  to  de  world  of  sin  and 
trouble.  'Deed  an'  I  wouldn't,  den,  Liza,  says  Sam — 
(mos'  too  fervent  like,  it  'peared  to  me) — 'deed  I 
wouldn't.  She  am  much  bettah  off — but  I'm  lonesome. 

20 


Think  of  de  years  I  got  to  spen'  all  alone.  Maybe  not, 
says  I,  takin'  his  han' — I  felt  so  sorry  fur  him — maybe 
not.  Course  you  don't  want  to  think  of  dat  now,  but 
dere's  other  women  lef  in  this  woiT,  Sam. 

But  no  mo'  Mahalys,  says  Sam,  holdin'  on  to  my  han' 
tight. 

Dat's  so,  Sam,  says  I.  She  could  wash  and  iron  all 
'roun'  any  woman  I  ever  did  see,  says  Sam.  She  could 
pretty  nigh  finish  a  day's  washin'  while  I  was  smokin' 
two  pipes  of  tobacco.  She  suttinly  was  a  remarkable 
woman,  Liza,  and  'pears  like  I  can't  stan'  de  lonesome- 
ness  of  de  kitchen  'thout  Mahaly  wukin'  'roun'.  Why 
who'll  I  talk  to,  chile? 

My  heart  wuz  jes'  a  bleedin'  fur  dat  bereaved  man, 
Mis'  Alice. 

By  the  way,  Mis'  Alice,  I'm  awful  sorry,  but  I  got 
to  give  you  notice  I  can't  do  your  wuk  no  mo' !  What's 
dat?  You'se  'sprised?  Well,  to  tell  de  trufe,  Mis' 
Alice,  I'm  'sprised  myself.  Dissatisfied?  No'm,  but  I 
goin'  to  make  a  change.  Well,  it  does  seem  kin'  of 
sudden,  but  I'm  goin'  to  be  married.  Yes'm,  tehee! 
Who's  de  man?  Well,  Mis'  Alice — you'd  nevah  guess 
— it  am  Sam  Watson.  I  felt  so  sorry  fur  dat  niggah 
that  I  dun  promised  to  cheer  his  lonesomeness.  What's 
dat — worfless?  No  count?  Well,  I  know,  Mis'  Alice, 
I  ain't  gittin'  no  bargain,  but  you  know  I  ain't  as  young 
as  I  used  to  be  an'  I  ain't  likely  to  pick  up  any  gran' 
bargains  fo'  de  rest  ob  de  yeahs  dat's  lotted  to  me. 
Sudden?  Yes'am,  it  do  seem  kinder  sudden,  but  dis 
am  a  sudden  age,  wid  telephones,  telegraphs,  an'  all 
dem  rapid  transits.  'Tain't  a  time  to  let  grass  grow 
under  de  feet — no'm,  I  tell  you.  Makin'  a  mistake? 
Well,  maybe  I  am.  Dis  heah  world's  full  of  mistakes 
— but  I've  made  up  my  min'  fo'  one  thing,  dat  I'm 
gwine  to  stay  above  groun'  and  let  Sam  have  de  fust 
funeral,  fur  he  sho  am  a  fascinatin'  man. 


21 


"SOMEBODY  JUST  LIKE  YOU." 

"Pis  sweet  to  think  in  this  hard  old  world 

There  is  somebody  just  like  you ; 
No  matter  how  cold  are  the  other  hearts, 

There  is  one  that  is  tender  and  true ; 
Though  the  path  be  steep,  though  the  long  way  rough 

Yet  my  faith  grows  strong  anew, 
And  I  thank  the  God  who  made  us  all 

There  is  somebody  just  like  you. 


22 


GEORGE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

It  ain't  so  awful  fine  to  be  a  boy  as  you  think  it  is, 
maybe — Gee,  I  allus  used  to  think  'twas  the  limit  to 
be  a  girl  cause  their  hair  is  long  and  must  feel  fierce 
hangin'  down  your  neck,  and  dresses  must  be  in  the 
way  when  you  want  to  climb  a  tree  or  stand  on  your 
head — but  then  after  all  girls  ain't  allus  in  the  way. 
Golly !  there  ain't  no  place  for  a  boy.  Aunt  Miry  says 
they'd  ought'er  be  nailed  up  in  a  barrel  until  they  was 
twenty-one.  Well  if  they  was,  when  they  come  out 
they  wouldn't  look  at  her  cause  she's  an  old  maid  and 
homely  as  the  dickens,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her  hear  me 
say  that,  you  bet,  or  she'd  have  it  in  for  me  all  right — 
that  is  worse'n  she's  already  got  it.  You  see,  she'd 
like  to  get  married  all  right  and  when  Mr.  Bob  Wilson 
was  comin'  to  call  she  fixed  up  to  beat  the  band.  Mr. 
Bob  ain't  much  to  look  at — fat  and  bald  and  old,  I 
guess — least  he  ain't  a  kid,  I  tell  you,  but  I  s'pose  he's 
all  Aunt  Miry  could  ketch — an'  she's  lost  him  now. 
Well,  Aunt  Miry  put  on  her  blue  dress  and  fixed  up  her 
hair — she  ain't  got  hardly  any  of  her  own — with  a  lot 
of  them  little  puffs  all  in  a  row  like  rolls  or  biscuits, 
and  then  she  sat  in  the  parlor  waitin'.  Well,  finally 
she  got  sleepy  cause  Mr.  Bob  was  late  an'  she  laid 
her  head  back  against  the  sofy  back  and  went  to  sleep, 
an'  the  more  I  watched  them  puffs  the  more  I  wanted 
to  loosen  'em,  so  I  just  slipped  up  and  took  out  the  hair- 
pins, and  when  Mr.  Bob  come  in  and  spoke  to  Aunt 
Miry,  she  jumped  up  suddenly  and  the  puffs  flew  off 
right  at  Mr.  Bob's  feet. 

"Pardon  me,  are  these  yours,  Miss  Miry?"  he  said, 
pickin'  them  up  and  bowin'. 

33 


She  turned  about  ten  colors  and  said,  "Why,  where 
did  those  come  from?  No,  those  are  my  sister's." 

An'  I  had  to  holler  out  from  the  back  of  the  sofy — 
"Golly,  what  a  whopper!"  An'  of  course  she  went  an' 
told  Pa  and  I  et  my  meals  off  the  mantelpiece  for  a 
week  after  that. 

I  took  one  of  my  white  rats  to  school  the  other  day 
though  I  didn't  mean  to — honest,  cross  my  heart,  I 
didn't.  I  was  playin'  with  the  little  rascal  and  he  crept 
into  my  pocket  an'  I  went  to  school  and  forgot  him. 
Then  all  at  once  after  awhile  the  girl  in  front  of  me 
jumped  about  eight  feet  and  shrieked  and  ran  to  the 
teacher  'cause  my  white  rat  had  run  under  her  dress. 
Just  like  a  girl  to  be  scared  over  a  little  thing  like  that 
— and  of  course  I  got  sent  to  the  principal  with  a  note, 
and  my  mother  had  to  come  and  see  about  it.  That's 
just  the  way  it  goes — a  feller  can't  do  nothin'. 

The  other  day  the  bunch  was  in  our  back  yard  play- 
in'  soldier  and  all  at  once  I  thought  it  would  be  great 
to  have  eggs  for  dynamite  bombs  to  throw  against  the 
barn — so  we  bombarded  the  other  fellers — our  side 
did — an'  when  Ma  come  home  she  was  red-headed 
'cause  the  side  of  the  barn  was  all  yellow  from  the  eggs 
and  she  said  eggs  was  24  cents  a  dozen.  She  often 
gives  me  that  much  for  candy  but  just  'cause  'twas 
eggs,  she  got  mad.  Aunt  Miry  said  I  was  the  worst 
boy  she  ever  saw  an'  'twas  lucky  I  wan't  her  boy,  an' 
I  said  you  bet  it  was  'cause  then  I  might  look  like  her, 
and  if  I  did,  I'd  go  drownd  myself  and  then  Gee  Whiz 
— I  got  another  lickin'. 

I  ain't  wishin'  Aunt  Miry  no  harm,  but  when  she  has 
her  funeral  I'm  goin'  to  sit  right  up  in  the  front  seat 
and  I  ain't  goin'  to  cry  none,  neither. 

But  the  worst  trouble  I  got  into  was  'cause  I  told 
the  truth.  Don't  you  believe  that  it's  best  to  be  like 
George  Washington  'cause  if  you  do,  you'll  get  left. 

This  was  how  it  was — you  see  Ma  and  Aunt  Miry 
went  to  a  party  one  afternoon  and  when  they  come 

24 


home,  they  was  talkin'  it  over  and  Ma  said,  "How  did 
you  like  Mrs.  Brown's  dress?"  and  Aunt  Miry  (she's 
allus  knockin'  everybody),  she  said  she  thought  it  was 
too  fussy  for  a  fat  woman,  and  why  did  a  person  with 
such  a  bad  color  wear  a  pink  dress? 

Well,  Mrs.  Brown  she  come  over  to  see  Ma  in  a  day 
or  two  after  and  I  was  makin'  a  kite  in  the  sitting 
room  and  Mrs.  Brown  knows  us  pretty  well  so  Ma 
asked  her  to  come  in  there  an'  they  talked  over  the 
party  an'  I  went  on  workin',  not  payin'  much  attention 
until  I  heard  Ma  say — "You  had  on  a  new  dress,"  an' 
Mrs.  Brown  says  "Yes,  how  did  you  like  it?"  an'  Ma 
said,  "It's  lovely"  an'  Aunt  Miry  spoke  up  an'  said 
"Yes  it  is  beautiful" — an'  I  was  so  s'prised  I  hollered 
right  out — "Why  Aunt  Miry  you  know  you  didn't  like 
it.  You  told  Ma  'twas  too  fussy  for  a  fat  woman,  and 
that  Mrs.  Brown  had  an  awful  bad  color  to  wear  pink." 

Aunt  Miry  coughed  and  Ma  looked  cross  at  me  and 
Mrs.  Brown  got  up  and  said  she  had  to  go. 

Gosh — 'twas  like  a  cyclone  when  she'd  gone.  Ma 
an'  Aunt  Miry  both  lit  into  me  an'  said  Mrs.  Brown 
was  turrible  mad  and  I'd  made  trouble  an'  all  'cause 
I  told  the  truth  like  Ma  allus  teaches  me — but  I  guess 
grownups  don't  allus  do  what  they  teaches  little  folks. 
I  was  sent  to  bed  without  any  supper  and  all  for  tellin' 
the  truth. 

An'  that's  why  I  say  it  ain't  such  a  darn  great  snap 
to  be  a  boy  as  you  think  it  is." 


25 


THE  CANOE  AND  THE  GIRL. 

You  may  talk  of  football,  skating  or  any  winter  stunt, 
When  it's  snowing,  hailing,  sleeting  and  for  fun  you 

have  to  hunt; 

Of  course  it's  awful  jolly  when  in  the  dance  you  whirl, 
With  your  arm  about  the  waist  of  some  dainty  little 

girl, 

But  of  all  the  many,  many  things  a  fellow  likes  to  do, 
For   mine   there's   never  anything   quite  like  a  bark 

canoe, 
When  you  just  go  paddling,  paddling,  down  some  quiet 

sluggish  stream 
With  the  girl  that  sits  a-facing  you,  a  girl  that  is  a 

dream ; 

Yet  just  as  real,  oh,  yes,  she's  there  amongst  the  cush- 
ions gay, 
And  oh  the  thousand  tender  things  you  always  want  to 

say, 
When  you're  drifting,  drifting  down  the  stream,  alone 

just  you  and  she 
The  world's  a  mighty  dandy  place,  from  every  care 

you're  free. 

Perhaps  it  don't  just  matter  what  girl  is  sitting  there, 
If  she's  pretty,  sweet,  coquettish,  she  may  be  dark  or 

fair. 
Once  on  a  time  'twas  Alice  with  her  look  so  sweet, 

demure, 
With  her  hair  so  quaintly  parted  and  her  eyes  so  large 

and  pure ; 
Sometimes  I  breathed  soft  nothings  or  hummed  an  old 

love  tune, 
With  her  I  went  canoeing  most  often,  when  the  moon 

20 


Was  at  its  full.  The  river  wound  a  thread  of  silver 
light, 

She  seemed  to  fit  this  setting — well,  I  tell  you,  just  all 
right. 

Then  'twas  May,  good  fellow,  with  her  merry,  roguish 
eyes, 

And  her  laugh  that  came  so  often,  yet  'twas  always  a 
surprise ; 

For  she  laughed  at  stream,  at  tree,  at  sky,  at  anything 
she'd  see, 

The  way  those  dimples  came  and  went  looked  pretty 
good  to  me. 

And  life  seemed  such  a  merry  thing,  all  dimples,  rip- 
ples, song — 

Where  everything  was  jolly  and  nothing  ever  wrong — 

That  I  almost  longed  to  laugh  through  life  with  merry, 
cheery'  May. 

I  was  very  near  proposing  when  there  came — well, 
came  a  day 

That  May  no  longer  sat  there,  'twas  stately,  queenly 
Grace, 

With  hair  of  gold  and  dreamy  eyes,  she  seemed  to  fit 
the  place; 

A  princess,  I  her  vassal,  her  lightest  wish  to  meet; 

And  though  I  sat  there  paddling,  I  was  kneeling  at  her 
feet; 

Until  a  little  later  a  thought  began  to  shape, 

That  from  continued  worship  there  must  be  some  es- 
cape; 

'Twas  monotonous,  'twas  palling,  though  why,  I 
couldn't  tell, 

And  so  I  went  canoeing  with  capricious,  •wilful,  Nell, 

Who  kept  my  wits  a-sharpened  with  her  brilliant  re- 
partee. 

Now  mad,  now  glad,  now  sorry — never  twice  alike 
was  she, 

Until  my  head  a-whirling,  I  was  glad  when  in  her 
place 


There  sat  this  other  girl.    I  looked  into  a  face, 
Pretty?    Yes,  perhaps  so.    Wise?    Oh,  wise  enough, 
When  a  fellow  isn't  very  wise,  there's  just  a  lot  of 

stuff 
That  this  old  world  calls  Knowledge,  he  can  worry  on 

without, 

One  can't  know  all  nor  half,  there's  never  use  to  pout 
For  something  unattainable,  this  other  girl?  her  name? 
'Twas  just  plain  Henrietta.  You  think  it  rather  tame? 
I  don't.  .To  me  it  is  the  name,  the  dearest  ever  heard, 
And  she's  the  best  and  dearest  girl — you  think  that  is 

absurd? 

But  then  you  didn't  drift,  go  drifting  down  the  stream 
With  this  dear  girl  who  typified  your  every  boyish 

dream, 
Of  what  a  sweet  girl  should  be — not  too  bright  nor 

good 
For  just  plain  every  day  life,  human  nature's  daily 

food. 
And  somehow  you'd  have  asked  her  as  she  smiled  there 

up  at  you, 
To  go  drifting,  just  as  I  did,  all  through  life  in  your 

canoe. 


28 


ON  THE  SUMMER  RESORT  PORCH  WITH 
JOHNNY. 

Play  there,  Johnny,  with  your  little  pail;  yes,  that's 
a  dear  boy.  No,  not  now,  by  and  by  mama'll  go  down 
to  the  beach  and  then  you  can  play  in  the  sand.  No, 
not  now — yes,  after  a  while — NOT  NOW,  mamma 
said.  Why?  Well,  because  mamma  wants  to  embroider 
a  little  while  and  talk  to  Cousin  Maude.  Yes,  that's  the 
reason.  Run  and  play  now,  that's  a  good  boy.  Do 
you  know  I  think  that  child  is  going  to  make  a  lawyer 
— he  always  wants  a  reason  for  everything.  It  seems 
so  remarkable  in  one  so  young.  He  has  a  splendidly- 
shaped  head,  don't  you  think?  Why,  when  he  was  six 
months  old  he  was  as  large  and  as  knowing  as  most 
children  of  a  year.  Look  at  that  little  Granger  boy — 
they  are  just  the  same  age,  and  Johnny  would  make 
two  of  him.  He's  such  a  stupid  looking  child.  I 
suppose  it's  by  contrast  with  Johnny.  How  do  you 
like  this  pattern?  Dainty,  isn't  it?  I'm  doing  a  whole 
table  set.  There  goes  that  Kenton  girl  with  that  Bob 
Berkley  again.  I  wonder  if  they  are  engaged?  Well, 
if  they  are  not,  they  ought  to  be,  or  else  she  ought  to 
have  a  chaperon.  Johnny,  for  mercy's  sake  don't  make 
that  noise.  I  can't  talk.  Well,  mamma  don't  want  you 
to  throw  your  pail  down  and  let  it  bump  on  every  step. 
Go  play  further  down  the  porch;  there's  a  dear  boy. 
Why?  Well,  because  it  makes  too  much  noise.  What's 
that?  Won't  it  make  as  much  noise  down  there?  I 
suppose  so,  but  we  won't  hear  it.  What's  that?  What's 
that?  Won't  those  ladies  down  there  hear  it?  Oh, 
don't  ask  so  many  questions.  No,  you  can't.  No,  not 
now.  By  and  by,  maybe.  No,  I  say.  Candy  is  not 

29 


good  for  little  boys.  Why  do  I  eat  it?  Well  candy 
does  not  hurt  mamma.  No,  not  now.  After  a  while, 
maybe.  Oh,  dear,  dear,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  Here's  five 
cents.  Get  the  stick  candy.  It  won't  be  as  injurious. 
Now,  for  pity's  sake,  run  along.  Do  you  know,  Maude, 
that  persistent  vein  in  Johnny's  makeup  is  really  in- 
dicative of  force  of  character?  although  it  is  a  little 
trying  sometimes — but  I  am  very  firm  with  him.  Look, 
look,  will  you?  Isn't  that  Mrs.  Wellington  Morse  out 
there  sailing  with  young  Himes?  That's  the  fifth 
time  this  week.  Her  husband  ought  to  be  here  to  look 
after  her.  If  there's  anything  disgraceful  it  is  to  see 
a  married  woman  running  around  with  a  young  man. 
What  did  you  say?  The  men  are  crazy  about  her? 
I  don't  think  so.  She's  so  bold — perhaps  they  like  to 
flirt  a  little  with  her,  but  away  down  in  their  hearts 
men  do  not  admire  a  woman  of  that  type.  Always 
dance  with  her,  do  you  say?  Well,  MY  husband 
don't.  I  told  him  not  to.  I  heard  she  keeps  a  fan  full 
of  names  that  she  uses  every  dance  to  make  people 
think  she's  popular.  'Johnny — now  just  see  what  you 
have  done — rubbed  that  sticky  candy  all  over  my  em- 
broidery, and  look  at  your  waist.  The  third  clean  one 
today.  Dear  me,  run  down  to  the  other  end  of  the 
porch  and  play.  Maude,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  stick 
of  a  child  as  that  Granger  boy?  See  how  he  tags 
Johnny  around.  What?  You  think  he's  a  good  child? 
— but  he's  just  like  a  wooden  Indian — no  life  what- 
ever. I  like  to  see  a  boy  have  spirit  and  ginger.  Look 
— here  comes  Mrs.  Johnson  with  another  new  gown. 
Isn't  it  absurd  to  come  to  a  place  of  this  sort  and  bring 
all  the  clothes  you  have?  You  think  she  dresses  well? 
Gracious,  how  can  you  say  so?  Too  flashy  and  gaudy, 
I  think.  Now,  do  look  at  the  way  Mrs.  Smithson  Jones' 
dress  hangs,  and  doesn't  she  stand  dreadfully.  She's 
too  busy  writing  papers  for  clubs,  I  suppose,  to  pay  any 
attention  to  clothes.  Must  be  awful  to  be  tied  to  a  wo- 
man like  that.  What  did  you  say?  Her  husband 

30 


seems  devoted  to  her?  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for 
tastes.  Why,  Johnny,  what  made  you  come  back? 
What's  that?  Those  women  sent  you  here?  Said  you 
made  too  much  noise?  The  cats!  The  idea  of  think- 
ing they  own  the  whole  porch.  You'd  know  by  the 
vinegary  face  on  Mrs.  Jones  that  she  didn't  like  chil- 
dren. Run  in  and  get  your  railroad  train  and  pull  it 
around  the  porch.  What  did  you  say,  Maude?  You 
heard  them  complaining  the  other  day  about  Johnny 
pulling  his  cars  around  the  porch?  Well,  I  never  heard 
of  such  cheek  in  my  life.  I've  a  good  mind  to  make 
him  pull  it  around  the  rest  of  the  day  for  spite.  What 
did  you  say,  Johnny,  love?  Don't  want  to  play  cars? 
Want  to  go  to  the  lake?  Well,  if  you  stay  right  there 
by  the  pier  in  sight  of  mamma,  you  may  go.  Keep  in 
sight  now.  By  by,  dearie.  Isn't  he  affectionate,  the 
dear  child.  I  guess  he'll  be  all  right.  There's  that  old 
bachelor — what's  his  name — Maxly,  on  the  pier  fish- 
ing. He's  cranky,  but  I  guess  he  wouldn't  let  an  inno- 
cent child  drown.  Here  conies  a  machine.  Oh,  it's  the 
Bailey's  from  the  other  side  of  the  lake.  Isn't  she  get- 
ting enormous!  She  should  join  the  fat  women's  bri- 
gade. You  know  how  those  five  or  six  fat  women  al- 
ways stand  on  the  porch  corner  for  twenty  minutes  after 
eating  to  get  thin — really  she  ought  to  diet.  Can 
hardly  get  out  of  the  machine.  Why  how  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Bailey?  Haven't  seen  you  this  summer.  How 
well  you're  looking.  You  say  you  are  growing  fleshy? 
Why,  I  haven't  noticed  it.  I  think  you  are  looking  fine, 
Johnny?  Oh,  the  little  darling's  well  and  as  charming 
as  ever.  He's  playing  down  on  the  beach  now.  Oh, 
mercy!  Oh,  heavens!  what's  this?  Mr.  Maxly  bringing 
Johnny?  Oh,  my  child,  my  child!  Is  he  hurt?  Is  he 
drowned?  What  is  the  matter?  Why  don'  you  speak? 
What,  only  got  wet  to  the  waist?  Oh,  then,  he  isn't 
drowned — thank  heaven.  What  did  you  say  Mr. 
Maxly?  Wish  I'd  look  after  him?  A  regular  nuisance 
to  everybody?  How  dare  you  speak  like  that?  You 

31 


rude,  cranky,  old  bachelor!  It's  lucky  you  are  not  a 
father.  I'd  pity  your  child.  Come  to  mother,  you  pre- 
cious wet  baby.  Oh,  Maude,  do  you  think  he  will  be 
ill?  What  did  you  say?  He's  all  right?  Do  you 
really  think  so?  Johnny  Black,  when  mother  gets  you 
in  the  room  she's  going  to  give  you  a  good,  hard  spank- 
ing. Bring  my  embroidery,  Maude.  Do  you  know,  I 
believe  I  heard  that  Maxly  swear.  He  did?  What's 
that?  He  said  he'd  like  to  spank  Johnny  himself,  tha± 
he'd  do  it  up  right?  The  horrid,  rude  thing.  No  won- 
der he  can't  get  a  woman  to  marry  him.  I  won't  spank 
Johnny  at  all  now  just  to  spite  him. 


32 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  SMOKE. 

Oh  say,  I  beg  you,  dear  old  pal, 

Don't  take  it  as  a  joke 
If  I  tell  you  I  can  see  a  face 

Outlined  against  the  smoke 
That  curls  up  from  my  evening  pipe. 

It  sets  my  heart  aglow; 
'Tis  only  there  when  I'm  alone, 

Perhaps  'tis  better  so. 
She's  mine ;  she's  mine,  this  dear  dream  girl, 

A  prayer  I  do  invoke, 
That  when  she  really  comes  to  me 

It  will  not  end  in  smoke. 


PATIENT  TOMMY. 

One  day  I  asked  my  muvver 

To  read  aloud  to  me 
'Cause  I  have  to  spell  out  every  word 

It's  orful  hard  you  see. 


I  was  eatin'  bread  and  milk 
With  my  new  cup  and  spoon 

And  muvver  was  a  sewin' 

So  she  said,  "Yes,  pretty  soon." 

'Nen  I  waited  just  the  longest  time 

And  asked  her  once  agen. 
She  telled  me,  "Yes  dear,  after  while," 

She  couldn't  do  it  'nen. 

An'  'nen  I  said,  "Oh,  muvver  dear," 

An'  she  begun  to  smile, 
"Won't  you  tell  me  which  is  longer, 

Pretty  soon  or  after  while?" 


34 


SNAKES— THE  SOLDIER. 

Snakes  had  red  hair  and  freckles  the  size  of  pennies, 
and  a  bath  was  an  unknown  luxury  until  he  drifted 
into  the  Settlement  House.  Even  poverty  has  its  class 
grades,  and  Snakes  had  the  reputation  of  being  the 
tough  boy  of  the  city's  tough  quarter.  His  name  was 
the  consequence  of  the  old  law  of  "sins  of  father"  or 
mother — the  mother  who  was  addicted  to  ladylike 
spells  of  •delirium  tremens.  Snakes'  father  was  an  un- 
known quantity.  If  he  had  one  he  had  never  estab- 
lished any  acquaintance  with  the  gentleman. 

Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well,  for  Snakes  found  his 
drunken  mother  a  care  that  preyed  upon  his  young 
soul. 

He  was  brought  before  Judge  Bronson  of  the  Juve- 
nile Court  one  day  on  a  charge  of  stealing.  An  officer 
found  him  with  fifty  cents  trying  to  buy  papers. 

"I  didn't  swipe  it  from  nobody,"  he  said  sullenly, 
"I  just  took  it  off  the  old  one.  Her  was  loaded  and  we 
didn't  have  nothin'  to  eat,  so  'twas  up  to  me  to  earn 
some  dough." 

Judge  Bronson  looked  at  the  little  animal  before  him. 
He  was  a  man,  just,  wise,  pitiful — kind.  Behind  the 
wolfish  expression,  the  defiance  of  the  creature  whose 
daily  life  was  on  the  defensive  with  the  world  against 
him,  he  saw  the  little  white  soul  that  would  be  white 
such  a  tiny  bit  of  a  while  against  the  fearful  odds. 

The  judge  spoke  kindly  to  the  boy,  as  he  might  have 
done  to  his  own  son. 

The  wolfish  expression  changed  to  one  of  distrust. 
Snakes  was  too  wise  a  little  bird  to  be  caught  with 
chaff,  but  he  understood  when  the  judge  dismissed 

35 


him,  and  shuffled  away,  half  expecting  his  blue-coated 
enemy,  Hennessy,  to  nab  him  as  he  passed  by. 

"That  bye  '11  wind  up  in  the  pen,  yit,"  muttered  the 
policeman.  "It's  only  prolongatin'  the  time  to  keep 
lettin'  him  go  free." 

After  the  court  adjourned  Judge  Bronson  went  over 
to  the  boy's  home.  Home  was  a  misnomer.  In  the 
dirty,  ill-ventilated  room  was  a  broken  chair  or  two 
and  an  excuse  for  a  stove.  On  a  cot  in  the  corner  lay 
something  in  the  semblance  of  a  woman  that  muttered 
and  groaned  the  gibberish  of  the  sodden.  Snakes  with 
a  dilapidated  pail  and  rag  was  trying  to  mop  up  the 
floor  with  some  idea  of  taking  up  the  duties  of  the 
wretched  creature  he  called  "the  old  one"  and  who  was 
responsible  for  his  being. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  judge  the  boy  sprang  toward 
the  cot  and  stood  glaring  like  a  tiger. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  run  her  in.  Her  ain't  drunk  now. 
Her's  sick." 

The  judge  took  a  chair,  sitting  down  slowly  and  cau- 
tiously because  of  its  dilapidated  condition. 

"My  boy,  I  haven't  come  here  to  arrest  your  mother. 
I  came  to  see  you.  I'm  interested  in  you.  You  are 
just  a  little  chap  and  before  you  may  lie  a  long  life, 
and  I  want  to  help  you  to  make  something  of  it.  The 
odds  are  against  you,  but  if  you  are  a  brave  little  sol- 
dier you  can  win  out,  and  nothing  is  worth  while  that 
'is  not  battled  for  inch  by  inch.  Come  over  to  the  Set- 
tlement House  tonight.  I  have  a  daughter  who  is  go- 
ing to  sing.  She  is  interested  in  boys.  Will  you  come?" 

Snakes  shuffled  his  feet. 

"Oh,  de  lobsters  dat  goes  in  der  is  tryin'  to  be  dudes. 
Besides  dey  says  I'm  too  tough  and  dey  guys  me  mud- 
der,  dat  is  dey  did,  till  I  knocked  de  stuffin'  out  of  two 
of  'em." 

After  some  persuasion  on  the  judge's  part  Snakes 
finally  promised  to  spend  the  evening  at  the  Settle- 
ment, and  the  great  man  who  had  time  to  temper  the 

36 


justice  of  the  Juvenile  Court  with  "the  mercy  that 
droppeth  like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven"  went  away, 
leaving  the  boy  with  a  new  feeling  in  his  soul,  half  of 
wonder,  half  of  distrust,  that  the  strong  arm  of  the  law 
could  rest  gently  on  the  lawless. 

At  half  after  7  Snakes,  timid,  half  afraid  (for  he  was 
face  to  face  with  his  old  enemies  of  "de  gang,"  who 
considered  him  in  the  light  of  a  pariah)  stood  shuffling 
uneasily  at  the  door  of  the  audience  room.  He  was 
ready  to  leave  at  the  slightest  excuse,  but  he  had  prom- 
ised, and  even  Snakes  had  some  idea  of  his  "word." 

The  judge  was  there,  however,  and  took  the  boy's 
hand.  And  then  Snakes  saw  her — the  blue-eyed  angel 
in  white.  The  judge  said  it  was  his  daughter,  but  no 
common  human  being  ever  looked  like  that. 

There  was  a  chromo  in  the  window  of  Dutchy's  sa- 
loon of  an  angel  with  white  robes  and  big  white  wings 
(although  the  incongruity  of  an  angel  in  Dutchy's 
saloon  did  not  strike  Snakes)  that  was  a  "dead  ringer 
for  dis  goil." 

And  the  way  she  sang — why,  he  could  hear  every 
word.  Things  about  spring  and  flowers  and  brooks; 
why,  it  just  made  a  fellow  want  to  go  a  fishin'  and  yet 
to  cry,  too. 

Miss  Annie,  that  was  her  name,  paid  lots  of  attention 
to  Snakes,  and  she  made  him  promise  to  come  again. 

He  did  come  again  and  again.  His  freckled  face 
was  washed  and  his  hair  brushed  after  a  fashion. 

He  acquired  a  paper  route  and  had  an  occasional  bit 
of  silver  in  his  pocket  that  did  not  have  to  go  for  imme- 
diate needs. 

"Me  an'  Rockyfeller  is  gettin'  to  be  de  main  pushes 
of  dis  here  country,"  he  said  one  day,  with  a  wink. 

True,  she  kept  him  drained,  but  no  amount  of  persua- 
sion would  make  him  leave  her. 

"Her's  allus  down  in  the  mouth  after  dem  soaks  and 
her  ain't  got  nobody  but  me.  I  guess  I'll  stick  all 
right,  all  right." 

37 


The  boy  fairly  worshipped  "Miss  Annie."  He  en- 
dured even  the  lectures  and  various  entertainments  that 
were  part  of  the  civilizing  influence  of  the  Settlement, 
together  with  the  clean  face  and  hands  process,  in 
order  to  be  near  her. 

Judge  Bronson  sat  in  his  cosy  library  reading  one 
night  when  the  maid  announced  a  caller.  "Please,  sir, 
it's  a  queer  little  chap ;  he  says  he  isn't  a  beggar  and  he 
must  see  you." 

Before  the  judge  had  time  to  reply,  "Snakes"  stood 
at  the  door. 

"Excuse  me,  yer  honor,  but  I  was  afeard  you'd  turn 
me  down,  not  knowin'  it  was  me,  and  I  had  to  see  you 
on  business."  Snakes  looked  important. 

"Oh,  how  are  you  Tim," — "Snakes"  was  used  now 
by  only  a  few  of  the  old  gang — the  judge  said,  rising 
and  shaking  the  boy's  hand.  "Come  in  and  sit  down." 

For  the  first  time  the  boy  seemed  to  notice  the  red- 
walled  room  with  its  warm,  rich  draperies  and  ebony 
furniture. 

Books — he  had  never  seen  so  many  in  his  life.  Very 
gingerly  he  sat  upon  the  edge  of  a  great  armchair,  then 
gaining  confidence  he  gradually  worked  himself  into 
its  luxurious  depths,  drawing  a  long  breath  of  satis- 
faction as  he  did  so. 

"Gee,  this  fits  a  feller's  spine  all  right,  all  right,"  he 
said  presently. 

The  judge  looked  over  the  top  of  his  glasses. 

Well,  Tim,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  been  honored  by 
a  visit  from  you." 

The  boy  sat  up. 

"Yes,  yer  honor,  an'  I  must  tell  yer  quick  what  I 
come  for.  You  know  de  guy  that's  called  two-fingered 
Bill,  what's  done  time  in  de  Bridewell  once  or  twict? 
An'  de  feller  dey  calls  Sluggsy?  Well,  I  heard  'em 
plannin'  to  slug  yer — to  lay  yer  out  cold  tonight,  be- 
cause you  sent  up  two-finger's  brudder — him  what  said 
he  was  only  fifteen  because  he  was  small  and  you 

38 


found  out  he  was  twenty.  They  said  Miss  Annie  was 
goin'  to  a  party  and  you  was  goin'  after  her,  and  they 
said  you'd  never  get  dere.  You  look  like  you  didn't 
believe  me,  judge,  but  this  is  all  straight  goods  I'm 
deliverin'  to  you." 

"Tim,  you're  a  brick,  and  I  do  believe  you.  I  want 
to  thank  you  for  the  warning  and  the  good  will.  You're 
going  to  win  out,  my  boy,  in  the  struggle  for  good  citi- 
zenship. Wait,  don't  leave  just  yet,"  as  he  touched  a 
bell,  "I'm  going  to  have  some  hot  coffee  and  some 
sandwiches  and  cake.  I  want  you  to  lunch  with  me 
and  we'llhave  a  chat." 

Snakes  leaned  back  again  in  the  great  arm-chair  and 
did  not  envy  even  "Rockyfeller." 

The  cake  was  something  to  remember,  a  thing  of 
joy  forever,  and  the  hot  coffee  warmed  his  very  vitals. 

But  by  and  by,  even  Snakes  had  an  idea  of  the  fitness 
of  things,  and  he  made  his  adieu  and  trotted  out  into 
the  night  and  shadow,  where  his  little  life  belonged. 

But  Snakes  had  had  a  taste  of  luxury  and  he  fin- 
gered the  dime  in  his  pocket  with  a  longing  for  further 
indulgence.  Could  he  afford  to  peep  into  the  museum? 
It  was  heads  or  tails,  and  the  spinning  coin  decided. 
Snakes  went  to  the  museum  and  made  a  night  of  it. 
It  was  late  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  rickety 
stairs  and  dark  as  pitch. 

It  was  just  as  the  boy  started  to  climb  the  steps  that 
some  one  grabbed  him. 

"You  will  peach,  will  yer,  you  red-topped  sneak? 
We  follered  you  and  we  know  yer  dirty  ways."  And 
before  he  had  time  to  answer  a  blow  on  the  head 
knocked  him  into  unconsciousness.  , 

When  Snakes  opened  his  eyes  he  was  in  a  long, 
white-iron  bed,  and  he  lay,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  between  clean  sheets.  The  sensation  was  so  novel 
that  he  could  only  wonder  if  he  had  died  and  gone  to 
heaven.  Yes,  it  must  be,  for  there  were  flowers — roses, 
and  there  was  an  angel's  face  and  an  angel's  touch — 
Miss  Annie  was  here  in  heaven  with  him. 


"Is  dis  de  pearly  gate  what  you  told  me  of?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"No,  Tim,  this  is  the  hospital.  You've  been  ill,  and 
you  must  be  very,  very  quiet,"  the  soft  voice  answered. 

"Sing,"  he  whispered,  and  at  the  nodded  permission 
of  the  nurse  Miss  Annie  sang,  and  the  boy  lay  with 
closed  eyes. 

When  he  opened  them  again  the  judge  stood  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

The  boy  smiled. 

"They — didn't — slug — yer,"  he  gasped  out,  brokenly. 

"No,  Tim,  my  little  soldier,"  the  judge  replied,  but 
the  boy  had  lapsed  into  unconsciousness. 

There  was  a  change  when  he  again  opened  his  eyes. 

The  ward  doctor  came  and  took  hold  of  the  boy's 
wrist  and  leaned  down  to  listen  to  his  heart  beat. 

He  shook  his  head  at  the  young  girl's  anxious  look. 

Snakes'  blue  eyes  roamed  from  one  to  the  other.  He 
saw  the  gravity  on  the  faces  about  him. 

"Am  I  goin'  to  croak,  yer  honor?" 

Judge  Bronson  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  cot  and  took 
the  boy's  hand. 

"Tim,  do  you  understand  what  I  say?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"There  comes  a  time  to  each  one  when  the  call 
comes.  To  some  early,  to  some  late,  then  the  fight  is 
done.  Are  you  brave?  The  call  has  come.  You  have 
fought  a  good  fight  and  the  Master  needs  you." 

"Him — what — you  said — was  hung — on  the  cross?" 

"Yes,  my  boy." 

"Well,  her  ain't  got  nobody  left." 

"I'll  look  after  your  mother,  Tim." 

A  peaceful  look  came  into  the  pinched  face. 

"Sing,"  he  whispered  again. 

And  as  Miss  Annie  sang  the  judge  murmured  brok- 
enly, "Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man 
lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend." 

And  ere  the  sun  had  set  the  little  soldier  had  gone 
out  by  way  of  the  Cross  into  the  Great  Beyond. 

4O 


A  SPRING  SONG. 

The  spring  has  come,  the  spring  has  come, 

Dear  heart,  be  of  good  cheer, 
How  do  I  know  it?   Listen,  love, 

The  organ-grinder's  here. 

The  spring  has  come — the  spring  has  come, 
My  heart  bursts  forth  in  rhyme, 

See,  mother's  head  is  swathed  in  white, 
'Tis  spring — house-cleaning  time. 

The  spring  has  come,  the  spring  has  come, 

Come  play  the  pipes  of  Pan! 
There's  every  sign  of  glorious  spring, 

Behold!   The  mover's  van. 


41 


AT  THE  RECEPTION.      • 

Heavens!  Look  at  the  line  of  carriages!  I  knew 
she'd  ask  everyone  she  ever  heard  of  to  this  reception. 
They've  been  so  crazy  to  get  on  the  Lake  Shore  Drive 
that  I'm  glad  they've  succeeded  at  last.  There's  Mrs. 
Strainer — of  course  she'd  come.  Wonder  where  she 
got  the  machine?  Oh,  I  see,  she's  with  the  Everson 
Booths — must  have  called  them  up  and  hinted  awfully 
strong.  That's  a  way  she  has  just  before  any  swell 
function — calls  up  friends  with  machines  and  asks  if 
they  are  going.  Isn't  that  nerve  for  you?  I  suppose 
that's  why  Mrs.  Booth  didn't  ask  me.  I  called  up  quite 
incidentally  to  ask  her  how  she  was  feeling,  but  she 
didn't  say  anything  about  it.  That  old  cat  got  in  ahead 
— I  mean — what  am  I  saying? 

Oh,  for  pity's  sake,  if  there  isn't  Mrs.  Crushington 
Crush.  Well,  how  in  the  world  did  they  get  her  to 
accept?  It  must  be  curiosity  on  her  part,  because  she 
tries  to  be  so  very  exclusive.  What  did  you  say? 
Didn't  I  send  her  a  card  to  my  reception?  Why,  yes, 
but  I  believe  she  was  ill  or  something.  I  didn't  really 
care  to  have  her  come — she's  too  airy  to  suit  me. 

Well,  here  we  are  at  last.  Look,  the  servants  are  in 
livery.  Isn't  that  a  come-up  from  the  old  side  street 
house  and  the  one  hired  girl  when  I  first  knew  them? 
Well,  they  haven't  spared  any  expense.  Look  at  the 
flowers — two  orchestras — that's  a  vulgar  display,  I 
think.  What's  that?  The  house  is  beautifully  fur- 
nished? And  this  boudoir  is  exquisite?  Oh,  I  sup- 
pose so — but  anyone  can  have  a  man  come  in  to  dec- 
orate if  one  only  has  the  money.  Let's  look  around  a 
little.  I  suppose  this  is  Bessie's  room — rose  and  white. 

42 


Well,  all  the  rose  and  white  in  the  world  won't  make 
Bessie  pretty  and  attractive.  Now,  my  Mabel  would 
look  like  a  dream  in  this  room,  with  her  dark  hair  and 
brown  eyes.  What's  that?  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  think  Bessie  pretty?  Why,  where  are  your  eyes? 
It  was  really  fortunate  that  Mabel  was  out  of  town,  as 
she  always  makes  Bessie  look  so  small  and  insignifi- 
cant. This  hall  has  an  oriental  corner — there's  nothing 
very  new  about  that  idea.  What's  that?  Maybe  they 
like  it?  Maybe — but — while  they  were  doing  it  up,  it 
might  have  been  the  very  latest  wrinkle.  Well — let's 
go  down. 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Johnson?  Very  well,  thank 
you.  For  Heaven's  sake,  look  at  that  sheath  skirt.  It 
is  vulgar,  I  think.  Can  you  see  the  back  without 
appearing  to  look?  You  like  it?  Well,  not  for  mine. 
What?'  She  has  a  fine  figure?  Most  any  one  could 
have  who  made  a  martyr  of  herself  to  tight  clothes  the 
way  she  does.  Well,  let's  hurry  to  the  drawing  room. 
How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Reacher?  Isn't  it  a  lovely  day? 
And  how  charming  your  new  home  is — all  in  such  ex- 
quisite taste,  but  then,  of  course,  I  knew  your  home 
would  be — we  were  just  speaking  of  it  as  we  drove  up 
— of  how  we  knew  that  everything  would  be  lovely  and 
just  right.  Where's  your  dear  Bessie?  Oh,  I  see, 
there  by  the  frappe  bowl  in  the  library  and  looking  as 
fair  and  dainty  as  ever.  I  regret  so  much  that  Mabel 
could  not  come  and  assist,  as  you  so  kindly  asked  her. 
They  make  such  decided  and  stunning  foils  for  one 
another.  One  sets  off  the  beauty  of  the  other.  Well, 
I  must  not  keep  away  the  other  guests.  We'll  drift 
along.  Goodness — what  a  crush.  I  can  hardly  breathe 
and  I  know  my  gown  will  be  torn  before  I  get  away. 
I  wonder  how  they  got  all  the  men  to  come  as  long  as 
Mr.  Reacher  isn't  receiving,  too.  Oh,  he  couldn't  come, 
of  course.  He'll  have  to  grind  awhile  to  pay  for  all  this, 
I  tell  you.  What  did  you  say?  They  are  mostly  young 
men  and  Bessie's  popular?  I  never  thought  it.  There's 

43 


Gordon  Lennox  talking  to  Bessie.  Isn't  he  a  hand- 
some fellow  and  a  great  catch?  But  she  needn't  set 
her  cap  for  him.  My  Mabel  could  tell  a  thing  or  two 
if  she  wanted  to.  He  fairly  haunts  our  house.  I'll 
run  over  and  speak  to  Mrs.  Crushington  Crush — just 
a  minute,  dearie.  What's  that?  Gave  me  an  icy  bow 
and  turned  her  back?  Not  any  more  than  I  did  to 
her.  It  was  only  as  a  matter  of  form  that  I  was  going 
to  speak,  anyhow.  She's  a  terrible  strainer.  I've  heard 
she  used  to  be  a  nurse  maid  when  she  was  a  girl  and 
I  got  it  very  straight,  too.  You  know  a  person  like 
that  always  tries  to  be  more  top-lofty  than  anyone  else. 

Let's  go  to  the  dining  room.  Good  gracious — did 
you  ever  see  such  a  mob — the  way  women  will  push 
and  crowd  for  a  little  refreshment.  When  we  get  it, 
it  won't  amount  to  anything,  but  I  want  to  see  the  din- 
ing room.  There's  Mrs.  Briggs  over  there.  Did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  that  coat?  Isn't  it  unbecoming? 
Suppose  she  didn't  have  a  new  gown  so  she  effects  her 
coat  and  furs. 

There's  Julia  Smithson — don't  look  as  though  she'd 
just  been  through  the  divorce  mill,  does  she?  Well, 
I'd  be  a  little  less  in  evidence,  I  think,  don't  you? 
Mercy,  I  wonder  if  those  people  in  the  dining  room 
are  going  to  camp  there  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 
What !  There  are  two  seats  ?  Thank  goodness !  Same 
old  American  beauty  table  and  rose  red  ribbons.  Noth- 
ing very  new  about  that.  You  think  it  is  lovely?  I 
like  something  novel  myself.  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  Salad  or  an  ice?  When  I  received  I  had  both, 
two  courses.  There's  too  much  oil  in  this  salad,  don't 
you  think? 

There's  Marie  Skinnem.  It  ought  to  be  Skinny. 
My  goodness,  what  a  wreck  she  is!  Why,  that  girl's 
been  out  for  the  past  ten  years  and  been  trotted  all 
over  this  country  and  Europe,  but  her  mother  can't 
get  rid  of  her.  Well,  we'll  be  a  little  more  considerate 
than  some  people.  Let's  go  up  and  give  some  one  else 

44 


a  chance.  How  do  you  do?  Yes,  very  well,  thank 
you.  Oh,  lovely — Yes — It's  all  charming.  How  do 
you  do !  How  do  you  do !  Goodness,  I'm  glad  I'm  out 
of  that  mob.  Let's  stand  here  a  minute — where  we 
can  breathe.  That  music's  too  loud.  It  makes  my 
head  ache.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Langley?  Yes, 
everything  is  lovely.  What's  that?  Have  I  heard  the 
news — Bessie  Reacher  is  engaged  to  Gordon  Lennox? 
Announced  in  the  paper?  No,  I  didn't  see  it.  No — 
goodby. 

Isn't  she  an  old  gossip?  I  don't  believe  it.  Any- 
how they  say  he's  awfully  fast.  He's  been  hanging 
around  Mabel,  but  we  would  never  have  allowed  her 
to  marry  him. 

Well,  it's  time  to  say  goodby.  Let's  go  back  to  the 
drawing  room.  We  have  had  a  charming  time,  Mrs. 
Reacher.  Of  course,  it  is  not  in  the  strictest  form  to 
say  goodby,  but  I'm  very  informal  you  know,  and  then 
old  friends  like  we  are  do  not  stand  on  ceremony.  By 
the  way,  I  have  heard  such  delightful  news  of  Bessie? 
Is  it  true?  Why,  dearie,  let  me  congratulate  you.  It 
must  be  such  a  comfort  to  know  that  she  is  to  be  so 
happily  mated.  Give  her  my  love.  Goodby. 

Heavens!  I'm  glad  that's  over!  Did  you  see  that 
foolish  grin  when  I  congratulated  her?  I  suppose  she's 
tickled  to  death. 

Here's  our  carriage  at  last.  Goodness  me — I'm  dead 
tired,  and  Heaven  knows  I'm  glad  its  over. 


45 


TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

One  night  my  ma  had  comp'ny  come, 

To  Sunday  evenin'  tea; 
She  never  knowed,  but  said  they'd  come, 

Quite  unexpectedly. 

She  smiled  and  said,  "How  do  you  do, 

I'm  orful  glad  you  came." 
But  when  she  got  alone  with  me 

She  didn't  look  the  same. 

Her  forehead  frowned,  her  eyes  looked  cross, 

She  cried,  "Oh,  deary  me — 
Whatever  will  I  give  those  folks 

For  Sunday  evenin'  tea." 

At  last  she  scurried  round  a  bit, 

Some  chicken  fixed  so  nice, 
Then  fried  some  'taters  just  as  brown — 

I  tasted  of  a  slice. 

But  ma  said:    "Stop,  don't  touch  a  thing, 

For  more  you  must  not  ask; 
To  make  it  go  around  to  all 

Will  be  a  dreadful  task." 

And  then  she  did  the  queerest  thing, 

When  all  the  food  was  ate ; 
She  said  so  sweet,  "Do  have  some  more, 

Please  let  me  fill  your  plate. 

There's  plenty  in  the  kitchen,'* 

"Why,  ma,"  I  had  to  call— 
"You  know  you  said  'twas  lucky 

If  it  went  around  at  all." 

46 


LILLY  BELL'S  'FINITY. 

"Dah  ain't  no  use  a  talkin',  Liza  Johnsing,  dis  am  a 
queeah  worl'  we're  livin'  in,  'deed  an'  it  am,  chile. 
What  am  I  a  coajugatin'  'bout?  Well,  mosely  'bout 
Lilly  Bell  White.  You  see,  Lilly  Bell  she  used  to  wait 
on  de  table  at  one  of  dem  swell  women's  clubs  an'  she 
was  sort  of  an  airy  kin'  of  a  niggah.  She  wore  a  black 
dress  an'  a  white  apron  an'  she  didn't  have  much  truck 
wid  de  washerwomen  and  scrub  ladies  in  de  neighbor- 
hood. Well,  she  married  Rastus  White — he  was  a 
waitah  in  one  of  dem  fust-class  restaurants  an'  dey 
puts  on  lots  o'  style  an'  Lilly  Bell  she  seemed  happy 
'nuff  until  all  of  a  sudden  I  noticed  a  change  in  her.  I 
noticed  dat  every  time  I  went  over  to  see  Lilly  Bell  she 
was  settin'  roun'  moonin'  an'  lookin'  kinder  like  a  sick 
calf.  I  says  to  her,  'Lilly  Bell,  look  a  heah,  what  in  de 
name  of  common  sense  am  de  mattah  wid  you,  niggah?' 
'Clementina,'  says  she,  'I'm  a  mighty  onhappy  woman.' 
'Why  fur?'  says  I.  'Well,  Clementina,  I'm  gwine  to 
tell  you  sumpin'  confidentiously.  Rastus  White  an' 
me  ain't  suited  to  each  other — he  ain't  my  'finity.'  'Fo' 
de  Lawsy  sake,  what  am  a  'finity?'  says  I.  You  know, 
Liza  Johnsing — tehee — I  clar  foah  gracious  I  didn't 
know  ef  it  was  sumpin'  to  eat  or  sumpin'  to  wear. 

"Why  don't  you  know  nothin',  Clementina?  It  am 
a  soul  mate.'  'Am  you  a  speakin*  'bout  feet?'  says  I. 
'Go  on  wid  yo*  foolishness,  Clementina,  you  ain't  got 
no  sentimentiousness  'bout  you.  A  'finity  am  a  pusson 
wid  tastes  an'  ideahs  jes  like  your'n.'  'Well,  what  am 
de  mattah  wid  Rastus?'  'Mattah?  Ev'ything  de  mat- 
tah. I  loves  music  an*  ef  a  hand  organ  comes  any- 
where aroun'  Rastus  he  has  a  fit — an'  as  fur  poetry — : 

47 ' 


why  ef  I  reads  poetry  to  him  he  goes  to  sleep.  I  tell 
you  I  ought  to  have  married  a  man  dat  has  some  kin' 
of  a  soul.'  'Well,  it's  too  late  now,'  says  I.  'Didn't 
you  promise  "'till  death  do  you  part?"  '  'Yes,  Clemen- 
tina, dat  am  de  worst— dat's  what  makes  me  misserble.' 

"Well,  Liza,  she'd  go  on  like  dat  until  I  got  so  tired 
of  dat  kin'  of  talk  dat  I  jes'  kep'  away  from  her,  and 
one  day  I  met  Rastus  on  de  street.  'Rastus,'  says  I, 
'how  am  you?'  'Oh,  I'm  all  right,'  says  he,  'but  Lilly 
Bell  she  ain't  up  to  de  mark.'  'What's  de  mattah  wid 
her?'  says  I,  to  draw  him  out.  'Well,  she  am  kin'  o' 
col'  an'  stiff  like — 'pears  dat  nothin'  I  do  don't  suit  her 
no  mo'.'  'Rastus,'  says  I,  'you  ain't  her  finity.  'My 
Lawsy,  Clementina,'  says  he,  'what  am  dat?'  'Why, 
dat  gal  am  plumb  hoo-dooed,'  says  I,  'she  keeps  talkin' 
'bout  finin'  out  you  ain't  suited  to  her,  an'  ain't  her 
soul  mate.  Yes,  dat's  what  she  said,  Rastus.'  'Whoo- 
pee,' says  Rastus,  'dat's  de  fust  I  hear  o'  dat  kin'  o' 
slush,  an'  what  am  I  gwine  to  do  'bout  it?'  'You  want 
me  to  cure  dat  woman,  Rastus?'  'If  you  would  I'd  be 
mighty  powerful  'bleeged  to  you,  Clementina,'  Rastus 
said. 

"Well,  Liza,  I  went  ovah  de  nex'  day  to  see  Lilly 
Bell  an'  I  foun'  her  moonin'  as  usual.  'Lilly  Bell,'  says 
I,  'don't  you  know  I  feel  mighty  sorry  for  Rastus;  he 
am  such  an  onhappy  man.'  'Who  tol'  you  dat?'  says 
she,  kin'  o'  sharp  like.  'Why,  he  am  certain  sho  misser- 
ble. You  know  dat  he  feels  dat  you  an'  he  am  so  on- 
suited.'  'Oh,  you've  been  turnin'  me  over  wid  Rastus, 
has  you?'  says  Lilly  Bell,  mad  in  a  minute.  'He  says 
you  ain't  his  'finity — he  wants  a  soul  mate,  an'  as  long 
as  you  both  think  de  same  way,  why  I  guess  you  ought 
to  git  mattahs  justificated  between  you  all  right.  You 
can  each  of  you  clar  out  an*  leave  de  other  one  alone.' 
Would  you  believe  me,  Liza  Johnsing,  wid  dat  Lilly 
Bell  jumps  up  an'  grabs  me  an'  shakes  me  till  my  teeth 
rattled.  'You  low  down,  no  'count  woman,'  says  she, 
'I'll  teach  you  to  talk  to  my  husband'  'bout  me.'  I  don't 

4* 


know  what  would  have  happened  if  Rastus  hadn't  come 
in  just  then  and  pulled  her  away.  'Rastus,'  says  she, 
'ain't  you  satisfied  wid  me?'  An'  den  she  bus'  out  a 
cryin'.  'You  am  de  pride  o'  my  life,'  says  he.  'An' 
you  don't  want  no  'finity  ?'  says  she.  'I  don't  want  no- 
body but  you,  Lilly  Bell,'  says  he.  'Dis  heah  woman 
is  tryin'  to  stir  up  trouble  between  us,'  says  she. 
'Clementina,'  says  Rastus,  'you'd  bettah  go  on  home, 
'case  Lilly  Bell's  mad  clar  through.' 

"Now  what  do  you  think  o'  dat  fo'  gratefulness,  Liza 
Johnsing — here  I  was  de  instrumentation  of  bringin' 
dem  foolish  niggahs  to  der  senses,  an'  all  I  gits  is  a 
shakin'  dat's  worse'n  a  chill  an'  a  reques'  to  git  out. 
Liza,  ef  you  know  of  any  married  people  what  gits 
mad  at  each  other,  you  jes'  let  'em  arrainge  der  own 
differentiations,  an'  you  can  be  pretty  sho,  Liza  John- 
sing,  dat  dat's  de  las'  time  dis  chile  is  gwine  to  git 
mixed  up  wid  any  foolish  woman  dat's  talkin'  such 
nonsense  as  'finities  an'  soul  mates."  • 


48. 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

Do  you  believe  in  fairies  ? 

You  don't?    Well,  then,  I'll  tell 
I  know  of  all  the  places,  , 

Where  the  charming  fairies  dwell. 

Once,  'twas  in  the  Springtime, 
When  the  lilacs  were  abloom, 

I  stood  beside  the  branches 

And  breathed  their  rich  perfume. 

All  clad  in  shim'ring  dainty  green, 
Fays  tripped  from  out  the  flowers ; 

With  step  as  light  as  thistle  down, 
They  danced  away  the  hours. 

And,  oh,  the  music  of  that  dance, 
Like  the  tinkle  of  a  bell — 

Nay,  nay,  of  many  tiny  ones; 
I  heard  it,  oh,  so  well. 

Then,  'twas  in  the  summer, 

As  on  the  grass  I  lay 
Beneath  a  glowing  rose-bush, 

That  the  fairies  came  that  way. 

In  robes  of  pink  amongst  the  leaves, 
With  merry  laugh  and  shout, 

They  climbed  amidst  the  branches, 
Scattering  petals  all  about. 

50 


Strange  to  say,  'twas  in  the  autumn, 
When  the  woods  were  all  aglow ; 

The  fairies  came  in  red  and  gold, 
A  fluttering  to  and  fro. 

And  when  from  out  my  window 

I  watched  the  wintry  blast, 
Send  whirling  snow-flakes  thorugh  the  air, 

The  sparkling  fairies  passed. 

They  beckoned  me  so  merrily 

From  out  the  drifting  snow, 
You  don't  believe  in  fairies? 

Well  I  do,  for  I  know. 


"LEAH." 

It  was  the  time  of  the  Feast  of  Ingatherings.  All 
Jerusalem  was  in  holiday  trim.  After  the  busy  sum- 
mer season  and  the  garnering  of  the  harvest,  the  beau- 
tiful city  was  decked  in  her  gayest  colors  to  celebrate 
the  joyous  time. 

Bright  awnings  stretched  from  house  to  house  across 
the  narrow  streets.  Booths  made  of  the  branches  of 
trees  were  set  up  in  gardens,  on  roofs  and  in  the  wider 
streets,  to  provide  for  the  increasing  multitudes  that 
seemed  hourly  to  pour  in  at  her  gates.  In  gay  attire 
and  carrying  branches  of  myrtle,  olive  and  palm,  the 
crowds  in  long  processions -swayed  to  and  fro  about 
the  streets.  All  night  the  lamps  burned  within  the 
temple  and  thousands  of  torches  flickering  from  shop 
and  booth  turned  darkness  into  day.  The  fruits  of  the 
harvest  lay  piled  in  tempting  profusion  before  the  eyes 
of  passers-by.  Never  had  the  city  been  more  fair  to 
look  upon.  But  the  gayety  and  laughter  of  the  eager 
crowds  found  no  answering  echo  in  the  heart  of  a 
lonely  pilgrim,  who  stood  viewing  the  busy  scenes  be- 
fore him — a  swarthy  man  with  a  sad  expression  in  his 
dark  eyes  that  spoke  of  inward  sorrow,  that  knew  no 
healing.  When  the  lateness  of  the  hour  dispersed  the 
crowds  he  turned  away,  reluctantly  to  his  booth,  but 
not  to  sleep,  only  to  be  in  a  waking  dream  until  the 
morning  hours. 

And  yet — but  two  short  years  before  he  had  felt  his 
cup  of  happiness  full  to  the  brim,  yea,  and  running 
over, — when  Leah,  beautiful  Leah,  with  her  lissome 
form  and  angel  face,  had  entered  his  home  in  far  Ca- 
pernaum as  his  cherished  bride. 

Oh,  the  days  spent  in  the  fragrant  court-yard,  within 

52 


the  four  walls  of  that  low  stone  house,  when,  with  his 
arm  about  her,  he  had  felt  that  Heaven  lay  very  near ! 

Pitiful  dream !  He  choked  even  now  when  he  thought 
of  the  rude  awakening — when  he  entered  that  little 
home  one  day  and  found  it  empty. 

If  only  she  had  died  e'er  her  soul  was  stained  with 
sin!  The  Great  Prophet  of  whom  he  had  heard  so 
much  of  late — could  He  heal  sickness  of  soul?  The 
blind,  it  was  said,  He  made  to  see ;  the  lame,  to  walk ; 
the  lepers,  He  restored  whole  to  those  they  loved.  Was 
there  a  balm  and  a  healing  for  his  aching  heart? 

In  the  early  morning  hours  he  rose  and  made  his  way 
through  the  crowds  already  astir  to  the  Temple.  The 
air  was  sweet  and  deliciously  cool  in  these  early  au- 
tumnal days.  He  climbed  up  towards  the  sacred  edifice 
and  a  feeling  of  peace  seemed  to  steal  over  him  as  he 
drew  near.  For  a  moment  he  paused  and  looked  down 
upon  the  city  below  and  then  up  toward  the  Temple. 
The  walls  were  touched  with  glory  in  the  morning 
sun  and  it  was  as  if  he  had  left  the  world  and  its  cares 
behind  him  and  was  moving  onward  and  upward  into 
"Peace." 

Suddenly  he  was  roused  by  a  voice  near  him,  "Make 
way.  The  Master  comes."  Looking,  he  beheld  a  small 
procession  moving  toward  the  Temple.  With  a  strange 
thrill  he  recognized  the  "Great  Prophet"  in  the  midst, 
and  drawn  as  by  a  cord,  he  followed  at  a  distance. 

The  procession  halted  at  the  outer  court  of  the  Tem- 
ple and  the  man  hastened  his  steps  thinking  that  the 
Master  was  about  to  preach  unto  the  gathering  crowds. 
As  he  drew  near  he  saw  that  there  was  a  sudden, 
strange  commotion  amongst  the  people  and  two  men, 
half  dragging  a  wretched,  fainting  woman,  pushed 
through  the  crowd,  straight  into  the  presence  of  the 
Saviour  of  men. 

In  an  agony  of  shame  and  terror,  the  woman 
crouched  at  the  Master's  feet,  her  black  hair  falling, 
like  a  veil  about  her  face,  as  if  to  hide  her  shame. 

53 


The  crowd  fell  back  a  pace  and  the  two  figures  stood 
out  in  bold  relief — the  Master  upright,  majestic,  in  his 
flowing  robes,  with  a  noble  dignity  of  bearing  and 
withal  a  strange  sweetness  of  expression  that  tempered 
his  lofty  demeanor — the  woman  crouching,  pitiful,  an 
abject  outcast  thing.  With  bated  breath,  the  people 
stood.  Would  the  Man  of  Holiness  blast  this  frail 
creature  with  a  look?  Would  He  spurn  her  from  Him 
and  bid  them  stone  her,  that  she  might  surfer  the  pen- 
alty of  her  sin? 

Silent  the  Master  stood,  only  looking  at  them,1  and  as 
He  gazed  one  after  another  shifted  restlessly  and  un- 
easily beneath  that  searching  glance  that  seemed  to 
read  the  very  soul.  Consciences,  long  since  dormant, 
began  to  writhe  and  twist;  half  forgotten  sins  reached 
up  like  pointing  fingers — not  a  man  but  tried  to  stifle 
some  unpleasant  memory. 

"He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast 
a  stone  at  her." 

Back,  back,  fell  the  crowd  from  that  voice  and  that 
look.  One  by  one  they  dropped  away,  leaving  the  two 
alone.  Lingering,  fascinated,  the  pilgrim  saw  the  Mas- 
ter stoop  and  lift  the  woman  gently.  Not  a  word  of 
condemnation  did  he  utter — only  the  gentle  command, 
"Go  and  sin  no  more." 

The  wretched  woman  glided  away.  Her  hair  still 
fell  about  her  face,  but  something  strangely  familiar 
about  her  figure  caused  the  man  to  follow  her  as  one 
in  a  dream.  Rapidly  she  walked,  but  he  overtook  her, 
"Leah!"  She  turned  like  a  hunted  creature  with  a  sti- 
fled cry  upon  her  lips.  For  some  moments  they  stood 
looking  at  one  another,  mutely,  then  he  took  her  hand 
in  his.  "Let  us  journey  home  together!"  was  all  he 
said.  She  drew  back  in  horror. 

"Thou  cans't  not  forgive  such  a  creature  as  I?"  And 
he  answered  her  tenderly,  "Did  the  Master  condemn 
thee  ?  What  am  I  that  I  should  withhold  my  pity  from 
thee?" 

And  she  suffered  herself  to  be  led  away. 

54 


WHEN  THE  JIMPSON'S  HAVE  COLD  MEAT. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jimpson  and  young  Jimpson,  aged  ten, 
sat  down  at  the  table  one  night  for  their  evening  meal. 
It  was  blue  Monday  and  there  was  the  regular  wash- 
day meal,  with  cold  meat  sliced  from  the  roast  which 
had  loomed  up  hot  and  juicy  at  the  Sunday  dinner  the 
day  before. 

Mr.  Jimpson  unfolded  his  napkin  and  picked  up  the 
cold  meat  fork. 

"Is  there  any  horse-radish?"  he  asked,  looking  at  his 
wife,  with  the  fork  poised  in  the  air. 

A  little  shiver  ran  down  Mrs.  Jimpson's  back  as  she 
remembered  that  Mr.  Jimpson  had  asked  that  same 
question  for  three  consecutive  Mondays  and  she  had 
completely  forgotten  the  horse-radish  when  she  made 
out  her  grocery  list. 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said,  very  sweetly,  with  not  a 
look  that  showed  her  inward  perturbation. 

Mr.  Jimpson's  lips  closed  in  a  thin  line.  He  laid 
down  the  cold  meat  fork — sat  still  a  moment,  then 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  went  down  into  his  pocket. 

"Here,"  he  said  to  Jimmy,  in  a  tone  that  made  the 
boy  start  guiltily,  for  Jimmy  alwavs  had  a  few  things 
on  hand  for  which  he  might  be  punished,  and  he  was 
wondering  what  particular  misdemeanor  his  father 
had  discovered.  Was  it  the  broken  pane  of  Jones'  base- 
ment window,  or  the  last  difficulty  with  his  patient 
school  teacher? 

"Here,"  said  Mr.  Jimpson  again,  handing  the  boy  a 
half  a  dollar.  "You  take  this  and  go  to  the  store  and 
get  some  horse-radish." 

Now,  Mr.  Jimpson  had  never  been  in  a  grocery  store 
more  than  once  or  twice  in  his  life.  He  knew  nothing 

55 


about  the  price,  variety,  style  or  size  of  anything  in  the 
grocery  line,  much  less  horse-radish.  Every  day  he 
sallied  forth  to  his  office  in  the  city  where  he  dealt  in 
stocks  and  bonds,  and  whether  horse-radish  came  in 
barrels  or  bottles — whether  it  cost  much  or  little,  he 
really  had  not  observed  and  did  not  know.  He  only 
knew  he  wanted  horse-radish  and  he  would  teach  Mrs. 
Jimpson  a  lesson. 

As  Jimmy  took  the  half  a  dollar  Mr.  Jimpson  thought 
he  detected  a  faint  look  of  amusement  on  his  wife's 
face.  Probably  that  was  not  enough  money,  but  he 
would  not  ask. 

"Here,  Jimmy,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made  the  boy 
jump  guiltily  again,  "give  that  back  to  me,"  and  he 
went  down  into  his  pocket  again  and  drew  out«a  two 
dollar  bill.  "You  get  enough.  We'll  have  horse-radish 
for  a  while.  You  get  enough,  and  hurry  up." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jimmy,  meekly,  and  started  away  on 
the  run. 

Silence  reigned  at  the  Jimpson  table  during  Jimmy's 
absence.  Mrs.  Jimpson  munched  a  bit  of  bread  and 
butter  and  her  husband  read  the  evening  paper.  The 
delicatessen  was  just  around  the  corner,  so  Jimmy  re- 
turned in  a  comparatively  short  time.  Mr.  Jimpson  was 
seated  with  his  back  to  the  hall  that  led  to  the  front 
door,  but  Jimmy's  mother  could  see  him  coming.  She 
had  to  make  every  effort  to  control  her  laughter.  On 
came  Jimmy  with  a  bundle  nearly  as  big  as  himself. 
When  he  reached  his  father's  side,  Mr.  Jimpson  looked 
up.  His  look  of  amazement  was  involuntary. 

"Now,  what  the  dev — what  the  deuce  have  you  got 
there?" 

"Horse-radish,"  said  Jimmy,  opening  the  bundle  and 
beginning  to  take  out  bottle  after  bottle. 

"Horse-radish?"  gasped  Mr.  Jimpson. 

"Yes,  sir,  that's  what  you  said  to  get — horse-radish." 

"Well,  I  didn't  tell  you  to  buy  out  the  store.  You 
ought  to  have  a  little  horse  sense." 

KG 


"You  said  to  get  plenty."  said  Jimmy,  beginning  to 
cry. 

"That's  right,  cry  like  a  baby.  If  I  hadn't  more 
judgment  than  you  have  at  your  age — I'd — .  Here, 
we'll  keep  three  bottles  of  this,  so  we'll  always  have 
some  on  hand,"  Mr.  Jimpson  added  sarcastically,  "and 
you  take  the  rest  back  to  the  store  and  get  your  money 
back." 

Jimmy  gave  a  tearful,  regretful  glance  at  the  waiting 
dinner  and  started  out  again.  As  he  reached  the  front 
steps  his  foot  tripped  and  the  bottles  of  horse-radish 
went  crashing  out  of  the  bundle  on  to  the  stone  steps. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jimpson  rushed  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  Jimmy,  dear,  are  you  hurt?"  cried  his  mother 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Jimmy  wailed,  thinking  it  wiser  to 
claim  injury  in  the  hope  of  escaping  a  scolding. 

After  ascertaining  that  the  extent.of  the  boy's  injur- 
ies consisted  of  a  mental  hurt  instead  of  a  physical 
one,  Mrs.  Jimpson  surveyed  the  steps  strewn  with  bro- 
ken bottles  and  horse-radish,  and  again  she  controlled 
a  wild  desire  to  laugh. 

The  three  Jimpsons  went  into  dinner. 

"I'm  afraid,  mum,"  said  Bridget,  appearing  at  the 
swinging  door  of  the  butler's  pantry,  "that  the  dinner's 
gittin'  cold." 

"We  are  going  to  eat,  now,  Bridget,"  said  Mrs.  Jimp- 
son. 

"Oh,  mum,  excuse  me,  but  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
we  needed  horse-radish  today." 

"I  think,  Bridget,"  said  Mrs.  Jimpson,  "if  you  take 
your  broom  to  the  front  porch,  you  will  find  that  we 
have  some." 


57 


SENTIMENTAL  SI. 

I  s'pose  there  ain't  much  poetry 

Down  in  my  hard  old  soul, 
Ef  I'd  run  a  race  with  knowledge, 

I'd  never  reach  the  goal, 
Yet  I  ain't — missed  all  the  pretty  things. 

The  clouds,  the  grass,  the  trees, 
Sometimes  I  feel  like  fallin' 

.  Right  down  on  my  old  knees, 
And  offerin'  with  all  my  heart  a  prayer 

Of  thanks  to  God  for  lettin'  me 
In  all  this  beauty  share. 

Today  the  brook,  the  flowers,  the  sky, 
All  jine  in  one  grand  tune, 

That  sings  and  rings  through  my  old  heart, 
Gol  durn!  If  it  ain't  June! 


58 


OLD  DAD. 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  Old  Dad  was  at  my  home, 
when  in  the  midst  of  that  very  necessary  but  most  un- 
interesting period  of  household  regulation,  house-clean- 
ing time. 

I  went  down  into  the  kitchen  one  morning  and  Old 
Dad  sat  in  state  upon  a  chair.  He  arose  immediately 
upon  my  entrance. 

"Mornin',  Mistis,"  he  said,  with  a  sweep  of  the  arm 
and  a  low  Chesterfieldian  bow.  "Dave  couldn't  come  to 
help  you  this  mornin'  so  he  sent  me.  'Dad,'  says  he, 
'you  am  the  onliest  pusson  I  could  trus'  to  do  Mistis' 
work  'cept  myself.'  I  cleans  mos'  every  day,  ma'am; 
that's  my  perfession.  I  cleans  drug  sto's,  and  paint 
sto's,  and  grocery  sto's,  and  windows'  and  steps  all 
over  dis  heah  part  of  town.  I'm  a  great  worker  an'  I 
ain't  no  talker,  an'  I  don't  jes'  use  up  yo'  time  foolin' 
and  talkin'  like  some  niggahs.  I  wuks,  I  do — yes'm,  I 
wuks.  I  carries  my  own  pails  an'  rags  an'  I  don'  loaf 
aroun'.  I  jes'  wuks." 

By  this  time  I  felt  a  little  dubious  as  to  Dad's  ca- 
pacity for  work,  a  feeling  -which  grew  from  suspicion 
into  confirmation  before  the  morning  -was  over.  How- 
ever, Dad  was  finally  established,  with  stepladder,  pail 
and  rag,  to  wash  the  woodwork  of  my  room.  He  was 
a  most  unique  looking  character,  with  a  crown  of  white 
hair  surrounding  his  wrinkled  black  face,  which  fairly 
beamed  with  gentleness  and  lazy  good  nature.  Alas, 
for  the  progress  of  the  house  cleaning.  Old  Dad  rub- 
bed the  woodwork  very  slowly,  but  his  tongue  kept  in 
constant  motion. 

"Ain't  you  a  southrn  lady,  ma'am?     I  knowed  so. 

59 


Dar's  a  kin'  of  set  to  yo'  back  bone  dat  looks  like  yo' 
come  from  souf  of  de  Mason  line.  I'm  from  de  souf, 
too.  Yes'm;  dey  calls  me  Old  Dad,  but  my  real  name 
is  Hezekiah  Ephr'im  Genesis  Gascoyne.  Yes'm;  I  use 
to  b'long  to  de  Gascoynes  of  Gascoyne  Hall,  down  in 
ole  Virginy.  Big  folks  dey  was,  too — m'm.  I  live  wid 
de  bes'  folks,  I  tell  you.  Wa'n't  no  po'  white  trash 
'bout  my  folks.  Didn't  you  never  heah  of  Colonel  Gas- 
coyne? No,  ma'am?  Why,  dat's  strange!  Thought 
everybody  knowed  him.  He  was  awful  proud  an'  high 
steppin'.  Had  de  right  set  to  his  back  bone,  I  tell  you. 
Yes'm.  Ever  know  my  Mistis?  Well,  now  honey, 
ain't  dat  queer?  Thought  everybody  knowed  my  Mis- 
tis. Pretty — honey,  she  was  jes'  like  one  of  dem 
bloomin'  roses,  white  and  sweet,  and  her  voice  was  sof 
like  music.  Too  bad  you  didn't  know  her.  An'  den 
little  Marster — proud  jes'  like  old  Marster,  but  full  of 
foolin'  an'  mischief.  I  growed  up  wid  dat  boy.  We 
used  to  play  together — use  to  eat  chicken  feet  an'  pig 
tails  togedder  settin'  side  by  side  on  de  same  log  fence, 
and  when  he  got  older  I  tuck  care  of  his  clothes  an'  was 
his  body  servant.  Well,  bimeby  he  went  away  to 
school  and  Mistis  she  pack  up  his  things  herself, 
wouldn't  let  nobody  else  do  it,  an'  she  cried  all  day — I 
ain't  say  in'  that  I  cried,  but  I  felt  jes'  like  somebody 
done  offered  me  some  watermillion  an*  den  tuck  it 
away  foah  I'd  had  a  chance  to  eat  it. 

"Mistis  used  to  jes'  po'  over  young  Marster's  let- 
tahs.  When  Christmas  holidays  come — Lord,  such  a 
rejuvenation  time.  Yo'  all  ain't  got  no  idea  what 
Christmuses  is  like  up  heah  dese  days — wid  a  big  tree 
an'  a  cracklin'  fire  in  de  hearth  an'  de  niggahs  in  dey 
turbans  and  white  aprons  calling  out  Christmas  gif, 
and  a  houseful  of  gay  white  folks.  Young  Marster 
come  home  wid  some  of  de  sojer  cadets,  dey  call  'em, 
an'  a  jolly  time  dey  had  wid  de  pretty  gals,  dancin* 
an  cuttin'  pigeon  wings. 

"Well,  young  Mars  went  back,  an'  somehow  his  let- 

oo 


tahs  didn't  come  so  frequent,  an'  den  one  day  some- 
thing happened.  I  don't  know  what  it  was.  Seem  like 
he  got  to  spendin'  money  an'  got  to  gambellin'  an' 
drinkin'  an'  dey  'spelled  him  from  de  school. 

"Well,  when  he  come  home  he  an'  old  Marster  done 
had  it  up  an'  down,  back  an'  forth.  Old  Mars  told  him 
he'd  disgraced  de  name  of  Gascoyne  an'  he  was  'shamed 
to  own  him,  an'  young  Mars  said  he'd  go  'way  where 
they  wan't  'shamed  of  him,  an'  old  Mars  up  an'  tol' 
him  to  go — wid  Mistis  cryin'  an'  cryin'  to  herself 
in  de  corner,  an'  de  upshot  of  it  all  wuz  dat  young 
Mars  up  an'  went  away  fo'  neider  one  of  'em  would 
give  in. 

"I  don't  know,  but  it  seemed  like  nothin'  was  ever 
the  same  'tween  Marster  an'  Mistis  after  that.  Mistis 
didn't  say  much.  She  wa'n't  dat  kind.  But  she  grew 
so  still  an*  white  seem  like  she  was  fadin'  jes'  like  a 
rose  dat  been  pulled  from  de  stem  an'  thrown  down, 
an'  seem  like,  too,  dat  a  breach  done  come  'tween 
Marster  an'  Mistis  dat  wa'n't  gwine  to  heal  very  soon. 
Marster  went  away  on  long  huntin'  trips,  an'  some- 
times he  didn't  see  Mistis  for  days. 

"Well,  bimeby,  de  wah  broke  out  an'  one  day  Mistis 
got  a  lettah.  I  heard  her  say  to  Marster,  'I've  some- 
thin'  to  read  to  you.'  I  'member  jes'  as  well  as  tho' 
you  was  readin'  de  writin'  now,  what  dat  lettah  said — 

"  'Mother,  dearest,  I've  enlisted.  Father  said  I 
had  disgraced  the  name  of  Gascoyne,  but  I'm  going  to 
try  to  do  something  to  make  you  feel  proud  of  me. 
God  bless  you.' 

"Then  Mistis  went  right  away.  Seem  like  she  kin' 
of  choke  up  an'  couldn't  talk.  But,  Lawd  bless  you, 
honey,  dat  boy  wa'n't  fit  to  fight.  He  wa'n't  no  mo'n 
a  boy.  He  was  sev'ral  yeahs  younger'n  me.  I  guess 
'twan't  mo'n  his  fust  fight — Marster  was  gittin'  ready 
to  go  to  wah  hissef — when  de  news  come. 

"Dey  wrote  he  was  in  the  thick  of  de  fight  an'  rushed 
to  de  front  an'  dat  Marster  ought  to  be  proud  of  him. 

61 


Dat  note  come  home  wid  his  body  an'  an  ole  blood- 
stained rebel  flag.  Marster  kept  sayin'  over  an'  over, 
"Too  late!  too  late!'  jes'  like  dem  foolish  Virginians 
dat  de  Bible  speaks  of,  dat  didn't  have  no  oil  in  dey 
lamps  when  de  bridegroom  come  to  de  do'. 

"What  yo'  t'ink  Mistis  did  when  Marster  sat  sayin' 
over  an'  over,  'Too  late,  my  boy,  too  late'?  She  jes' 
went  over  an'  knelt  down  at  his  feet  an'  took  his  hands 
in  hers,  an'  I  knowed  dat  dere  wa'n't  grwine  to  be  no 
breach  'tween  Marster  an'  Mistis  no  mo'  after  dat,  an' 
dat  dere  hearts  done  come  togedder  over  young  Mars- 
ter's  coffin—" 

. .  "Lord  bless  you,  honey,  if  dah  ain't  yo'  lunch  bell 
an'  I  can't  wuk  no  mo'n  half  a  day  heah.  Yo'  see  Dave 
tuk  me  off  anuther  job  to  'commodate  you.  By  the  by, 
lady,  yo'  ain't  got  any  clothes  dat  yo'  husban'  don't 
wan'  has  yo'?  We's  gwine  to  have  a  fligious  revival 
down  to  our  church  next  week — gwine  stir  up  de  whole 
Bible  from  Adam  and  Eve  clar  froo  to  Gabriel's  trump, 
an'  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  wear  but  dis  heah  raggedy 
suit.  'Tain't  fit  to  talk  in  meetin'  in,  an'  I  got  to 
'spostulate  wid  de  sinners.  Dis  heah  suit  ma'am?  Lord 
bless  you,  ma'am!  Why,  I'll  be  awful  proud  in  dat 
suit.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  You  is  a  true  southern  lady 
for  sho'." 

And  Old  Dad,  with  his  soft,  melodious  voice  and 
Chesterfieldian  manner,  went  bowing  out  and  the  clos- 
ing door  shut  out  the  romantic  past  and  the  old  regime 
and  left  me  in  the  prosaic  present. 


THE  ELDER'S  DRINK  OF  CIDER. 

I've  got  jest  as  much  respect  fur  religion,  Silas 
Peters,  as  any  man,  but  I  can't  abide  a  hypercrit. 
Course  'twant  respectful  of  Josh,  but  he  allus  wuz  so 
bilin'  bubblin'  full  o'  the  dickens  that  he  can't  help 
playin'  them  jokes  no  more'n  a  bird  can  help  flyin'. 
Mad, — my,  but  Lucindy  Ann  was  mad !  Why,  you  see, 
it  happened  this  way.  Let  me  light  my  pipe,  I  can  al- 
lus talk  better  between  puffs.  Well,  Elder  Rice  was  a 
stayin'  to  our  house,  you  know,  while  he  was  givin' 
them  temperance  talks  to  Graystown.  Now  temper- 
ance talks  is  all  right,  and  Lord  knows  Graystown 
needs  'em,  but  'twant  no  reason  cause  you're  givin' 
temperance  talks  that  you  need  wear  a  face  as  long  as 
a  mule's  an'  make  the  folks  around  you  miser'ble.  Ev- 
ery time  Josh  went  'round  singin'  to  his  work,  Elder 
Rice  'd  ask  him  if  he  was  lookin'  out  for  a  future 
world,  and  that  too  much  levity  wuz  onseemly.  An' 
when  Molly  come  out  in  her  pretty  white  dress  with 
pink  ribbons,  he  said  'twas  too  bad  she  had  no  mother 
to  guide  her  'cause  frivolity  wuz  the  reignin'  crime 
of  the  women  of  this  age.  Well,  Molly  pretty  nigh 
cried,  she  wuz  so  taken  aback,  an'  when  the  two  kids, 
Josh  and  .Molly,  went  to  a  barn  dance,  gol  dern  it, 
the  Elder  most  threw  a  fit — he  dressed  'em  down  so. 
Lucindy  Ann  she  was  tickled  to  death.  You  know 
Lucindy  allus  talked  and  acted  as  though  death  wuz 
right  around  the  corner  waitin'  to  grab  a  body  the  min- 
ute he  stepped  out  o'  the  door,  an'  when  the  Elder 
come  she  wus  in  her  elyment.  Course  Lucindy's 
my  wife's  sister  and  since  Ma  died  she's  done  her  best 
to  take  keer  o'  things,  but  Lucindy's  a  good  deal  of  a 

63 


wet  blanket.  Now,  I'm  agoin'  to  die  sometime,  Silas 
Peters,  but  I  ain't  goin'  to  buy  my  coffin  and  set  down 
in  it  waitin'  till  the  blow  comes.  Maybe  the  Lord 
meant  us  to  be  solemn  all  the  time,  but  ef  he  did,  then 
he  hadn't  oughter  made  the  green  grass,  an'  the  flow- 
ers and  the  sunshine.  Didn't  he  make  the  birds  sing? 
Why  you  can't  look  around  you  'thout  feelin'  the  joy 
of  livin'  sometimes.  Course  there's  sickness,  an'  pain 
and  worry,  but  it  don't  do  no  good  to  keep  a  harpin' 
on  it  all  the  time.  Then,  too,  the  Elder  he  wan't  con- 
sistent. He  could  talk  a  heap  to  other  folks  about  sac- 
rificin'  themselves  and  crucyfyin'  the  flesh,  but  he 
could  get  next  to  roasted  pork  or  nice  fresh  pumpkin 
pie  about  as  quick  as  anybody  you  ever  seen.  Well,  to 
go  on  with  my  story.  It  all  come  about  this  way.  We 
had  some  nice  cold  cider  one  night  an'  the  way  the 
Elder  laid  down  the  law  to  the  hull  family  wuz  a  cau- 
tion. Said  that  cider  were  a  disgrace  and  war  reely  a 
device  of  the  Evil  One.  Josh  war  kind  o'  impudent 
I  guess  and  said  the  Evil  One  wuz  mighty  thoughtful 
to  provide  such  good  entertainment,  which  remark 
nearly  made  Lucindy  Ann  have  a  faintin'  spell,  be- 
cause Josh  spoke  that  a  way  to  the  Elder.  I  sez  to 
him,  "Elder  Rice,"  sez  I,  this  ain't  very  hard  cider  an' 
it's  mighty  refreshin'."  It's  jes  a  steppin'  stone  to 
liquor,  sez  he,  an'  then  he  lanched  into  a  tirade  that 
wuz  as  tiresome  as  a  naggin'  woman.  It  looked  al- 
mighty to  me  like  encroachin'  on  a  man's  liberties,  but 
I  didn't  say  much  bein's  the  Elder  was  a  sort  of  guest 
and  Lucindy  Ann  sot  so  much  store  by  him. 

Well,  that  night,  Silas  Peters,  it  seems  that  Josh 
heerd  a  noise  in  the  hall  an'  went  an'  looked  out  o'  his 
door'  an'  what  did  he  see  but  Elder  Rice  a  creepin'  along 
softly  down  the  stairs.  Josh  was  curous  an'  he  went  a 
creepin'  softly  after  him — down  went  the  Elder  and 
down  went  Josh,  through  the  kitchen  and  into  the 
cellar.  Then  Josh  peeked  and  he  seen  the  Elder  take  a 
pitcher  in  his  hand  from  off  the  table..  Then  he  crept 

64 


to  the  stairs  and  sot  the  candle  on  the  steps  an'  went  on 
down.  Well,  Silas  Peters,  you  can  jab  me  in  the  ribs 
if  that  son  of  a  gun  of  an  Elder  didn't  go  straight  fur 
the  cider  barrel  and  went  fumblin'  around  fur  the 
spigot.  An'  then  that  imp  of  a  Josh  waits  an'  lets 
the  cider  begin  to  run  in  the  pitcher  an'  then  he  up  and 
blows  out  the  candle.  By  gum,  but  the  Elder  wuz  in 
a  fix,  fer  he  lost  the  spigot  in  the  dark  an'  that  Josh 
went  up  stairs  and  got  into  bed.  'Twas  a  little  after 
midnight  or  mebbe  'twan't  so  late  as  that  that  I  woke 
up  thinkin'  I  heerd  somebody  callin'.  I  listened  and 
listened* and  jest  then  Lucindy  Ann  come  to  my  door. 
"Reuben,"  said  she,  scared  like,  "I  hearn  someone 
callin'  somewheres  fer  help."  An'  I  springs  out  of 
bed  an'  we  goes  down  stairs,  follerin'  the  sound  till  we 
come  to  the  cellar.  I  went  down  stairs  and  peered  into 
the  room.  Never  shall  I  fergit  the  sight.  The  Elder 
wuz  a  kneelin'  in  front  of  the  barrel  with  his  hand  agin 
the  bung  hole  tryin'  to  hold  the  cider  in  an'  the  blamed 
stuff  wuz  a  runnin'  in  streams  all  over  the  cellar,  an' 
the  Elder  a  shiverin'  fer  he  didn't  have  on  nothin'  but 
his  night  clothes.  Lucindy  Ann,  when  she  seen  the 
Elder  with  so  few  clothes  on,  she  gives  a  little  screech 
and  runs  back  up  stairs.  I  wuz  jest  a  goin'  to  say  some- 
thin'  when  Josh  leans  over  my  shoulder.  "Elder,"  sez 
he,  "won't  you  have  a  little  cider?"  I  told  him  to  dry 
up  an'  he  sez  that  is  what  the  Elder  was  a  wishin'  he 
could  do.  "Brother,"  sez  the  Elder,  with  his  teeth  a 
chatterin',  "this  is  most  extraordinary."  "It  sure  is," 
sez  Josh,  over  my  shoulder.  "I  heerd  a  noise  in  the 
cellar  and  come  to  investigate,"  said  the  Elder,  a  shiv- 
erin' with  the  air  of  the  blamed  place  as  he  talked. 
"My  candle  went  out  and  I  knocked  agin  the  barrel  and 
knocked  out  the  spigot,  an'  the  cider  begun  to  over- 
flow." "Looks  like  a  reg'lar  deluge,"  sez  Josh,  "but  I 
kin  swim  an'  I'll  dive  in  an'  rescue  you."  He  sure  had 
a  cider  bath,  the  Elder  did."  "Excuse  me,  Silas  Peters, 
I've  got  to  laugh  agin,  whenever  I  think  of  it,  an'  if 

65 


you  see  me  laughin'  anytime  to  myself  and  it  'pears  like 
I've  gone  clean  plumb  daffy,  then  you'll  know  what's 
the  matter  with  me,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  'bout  the  Elder  an' 
his  cider  bath.  You  couldn't  make  Lucindy  Ann  be- 
lieve but  what  the  Elder's  story  was  a  gospel  truth, 
but  it  sounded  too  all  fired  thin  to  me,  an'  he  never  did 
explain  why  he  took  the  pitcher  along  with  him.  Now, 
I  say,  if  a  man  wants  a  drink  of  cider,  let  him  take  it 
open  and  above  board  an'  not  go  sneakin'  'round  to 
drink  it  in  the  dark. 

There  I  go  agin,  Silas  Peters,  don't  mind  me,  don't 
mind  me.  You  know  what  I'm  a  laughin'  at  and  gol 
dern,  I  can't  help  it.  Gee  whiz !  Whew ! 


A  TRANSPLANTED  ROMANCE.* 

Antonio  stood  at  the  door  of  his  shop  and  looked 
down  the  street  with  a  contented  sort  of  feeling.  He 
had  just  graduated  from  a  little  glass-enclosed  fruit- 
stand  upon  the  sidewalk's  edge  to  this  fine  new  shop 
upon  the  corner  of  a  busy  street,  and  stood  surveying 
the  tempting  display  of  luscious  fruit  ranged  upon  the 
stand,  both  without  and  within  the  shop,  with  a  very 
self-satisfied  air.  There  were  great  golden  oranges  and 
tempting  bunches  of  white  grapes  that  brought  to  him 
the  thought  of  his  own  beloved,  vineclad,  sun-kissed 
Italy ;  lemons,  wrapped  in  pink  and  white  papers,  with 
here  and  there  one  in  a  gayer  wrapper  of  silver  or  gilt 
by  way  of  variety;  great  rosy-cheeked  apples,  with  a 
"shininess"  not  imparted  by  nature,  and  savoring  of 
the  rubbing  of  a  bandana. 

Before  him  in  the  street  played  his  two  children, 
Beppo  and  Juliette,  who  looked  more  like  two  quaint 
little  dolls  than  two  flesh  and  blood  babies;  Juliette 
especially,  with  the  full,  old-fashioned  skirt  that  came 
down  to  her  little  feet,  the  red  handkerchief  folded 
across  her  breast,  the  round  gold  hoops  in  her  little 
brown  ears  and  the  string  of  coral  beads  around  her 
tiny  throat,  and  above  all,  the  rosy,  dimpling  baby  face, 
lightened  by  big  velvety  brown  eyes  and  topped  by  a 
mop  of  black  curls,  whose  beauty  brought  her  many 
an  extra  penny  from  her  father's  customers.  The  gra- 
cious, merciful  Providence  that  looks  after  street  ba- 
bies did  not  forget  these  two  and  they  played  in  the 

*Written  for  Short  Stories. 

67 


gutters,  under  horses'  feet  and  in  front  of  trolley  cars, 
with  an  abandon  and  fearlessness,  that  surely  would 
have  been  the  maiming  or  the  death  of  some  more  care- 
fully nourished  children,  and  that  made  watchful,  anx- 
ious mothers  shudder  as  they  passed. 

And  yet  Nanina  did  not  think  she  neglected  her  ba- 
bies. She  loved  and  cared  for  them  as  much  as  a  busy 
mother  could  do,  for  was  not  the  store  to  be  tended 
when  Antonio  was  away,  as  well  as  the  cooking  to  be 
done  and  her  other  work,  in  the  rooms  back  of  the 
shop?  So,  really,  all  she  could  do  for  her  babies  was 
to  dress  them,  feed  them  and  put  them  to  bed;  the 
rest  of  the  time  they  must  shift  for  themselves. 

She  was  so  young,  too,  this  wife,  barely  twenty,  a 
fact  more  apparent  as  she  came  and  stood  by  Antonio's 
side,  in  the  cool  of  the  late  afternoon,  for  he  was  on 
the  shady  side  of  forty  and  his  hair  was  beginning  to 
grow  thin  about  his  temples  and  brow.  Just  a  larger 
edition  of  the  baby  Juliette  she  looked  standing  there 
in  the  doorway,  the  same  plumpness  and  dimples  and 
velvety  eyes,  even  the  same  folded  kerchief  about  the 
breast  and  gold  hoops  in  the  ears.  Instead,  however, 
of  the  mop  of  black  curls  that  strayed  riotously  over 
Juliette's  little  head,  the  mother's  hair  was  parted  in 
the  middle  and  lay  like  bands  of  glossiest  satin  on 
either  side  of  the  pretty  face,  and  in  great  massive  black 
braids  at  the  nape  of  the  round,  shapely  neck.  With 
a  touch  of  coquetry,  she  had  added  a  shell  comb  and  an 
artificial  red  rose  that  vied  in  color  with  her  full,  ripe 
lips. 

Trade  had  been  brisk  today,  although  there  was  a 
temporary  lull  just  now,  so  they  were  both  smiling  as 
they  heard  the  ting,  ting  of  a  bell  and  both  the  children 
shouted  and  clapped  their  hands  as  a  man,  pushing  a 
popcorn  cart,  turned  the  corner  and,  stopping,  greeted 
them  gaily.  "Good-day  to  you,  Luca,"  said  Antonio 
in  Italian,  coming  down  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk 
to  examine  the  new  hand-cart.  Bright  indeed  it  was, 

08 


all  blue  and  yellow  with  sides  of  glass  upon  which 
were  inscribed  in  letters  of  enamel, 

"Sugared  Buttered  and  Chocolate" 
"Pop  Corn — 5  cents  a  bag" 
"Peanuts  and  Gum." 

Inside  the  glass  case  was  a  gasoline  torch,  a  corn  pop- 
per, a  shiny  new  pewter  pot  which  held  the  melted 
butter,  and  a  whisk  broom  used  for  brushing  the  great 
white  kernels  into  a  pile  where  they  were  scooped  into 
the  paper  bag  by  a  tin  sugar-scoop.  Luca  bestowed  a 
bag  of  corn  (stale  corn  that  would  not  sell  readily) 
upon  the  babies,  who  munched  away  upon  it  happily. 
He  might  have  been  a  Romeo  in  disguise,  as  he  stood 
leaning  in  a  careless  attitude  against  his  cart  with  his 
cap  thrown  back,  showing  the  thick,  curly  hair  be- 
neath; for  he  was  young,  handsome  and  straight  of 
limb.  The  brown  velveteen  coat  and  red  handkerchief 
aoout  his  neck  added  a  picturesque  touch  to  his  attire. 
His  teeth  gleamed  white  as  he  smiled,  which  he  did 
continually. 

Strange  to  say,  Nanina  did  not  leave  the  doorway, 
and  after  replying  to  his  greeting,  seemed  to  give  him 
no  further  heed  but  stood  looking  absently  down  the 
street.  Ar!  how  her  looks  belied  her  feelings,  for  the 
heart  beneath  the  folded  kerchief  kept  up  a  quick  beat- 
ing. Stand  back,  Antonio !  For  your  poor  little  figure 
forms  too  sharp  a  contrast  to  the  tall  young  fellow  at 
your  side! 

The  two  men  talked  away  volubly  for  some  time. 
Presently  a  customer  took  Nanina  within,  and  after  a 
time  another  came  and  Antonio  went  in  to  help  her, 
leaving  Luca  alone;  but  Luca  was  not  going  just  yet 
and  sauntered  up  to  the  doorway.  Nanina's  customer 
left  and  she  came  outside, — he  knew  she  would. 

"My  beautiful  queen,  you  say  nothing  to  me  today," 
he  whispered  in  softest  Italian. 

A  faint  color  came  into  her  cheeks  and  she  shrugged 


her  shoulders  and  pursed  up  her  full,  red  lips,  but  she 
did  not  answer,  for  Antonio's  customer  came  out  just 
then  and  he  followed,  quickly,  smiling  and  rubbing  his 
hands  together,  because  of  the  pretty  bit  of  silver  he 
had  just  received. 

The  two  men  talked  away  busily  again  but  Nanina 
was  still  silent,  and  presently  Luca,  shaking  hands  with 
them  both,  took  his  leave,  bowing,  smiling  and  showing 
his  white  teeth  as  he  kissed  his  hand  to  the  babies. 
Pushing  the  little  cart  in  front  of  him,  he  disappeared 
around  the  corner,  but  the  woman's  eager  ears  caught 
the  ting,  ting  of  the  little  bell  far  up  the  street. 

It  was  always  thus  when  Luca  came — that  Nanina 
was  silent.  He  came  often  and  Antonio  who  was  fond 
of  the  young  fellow  was  always  glad  to  see  him  and 
they  had  many  a  busy  chat  together.  He  upbraided 
his  wife  with  her  coldness  toward  Luca  and  accused  her 
of  disliking  him  because  she  had  nothing  to  say  in  his 
presence. 

Poor  foolish  Antonio !  He  adored  his  beautiful  young 
wife  with  all  the  intensity  of  his  passionate,  southern 
nature,  and  it  occurred  to  him  not  for  a  moment  that 
she  did  not  love  him  with  an  equal  ardor.  Least  of 
all  would  he  have  suspected  her  mad  infatuation  for 
Luca,  all  the  more  wild  because  helpless  and  hopeless. 
But  Luca  knew  and  he  smiled  to  himself,  showing  his 
white  teeth  in  his  satisfaction.  She  was  nothing  more 
to  him  than  any  other  pretty  woman — he  adored  them 
all  and  charmed  them  all  with  the  fascination  of  a  wily 
snake.  But  affairs  could  not  go  on  in  this  way  for  long 
— it  must  at  last  be  discovered  that  Luca  came  to  the 
little  fruit  shop  very  often  during  Antonio's  absence. 
That  the  young  Italian  sometimes  came  when  he  was 
away,  Antonio  knew,  for  the  children  spoke  of  him, 
and  of  this  he  thought  nothing,  but  of  how  often,  he 
had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

One  day  his  blind  eyes  were  opened.  He  had  been 
down  to  the  city  to  buy  fruit  in  the  early  morning 
hours,  and  as  he  was  within  a  half  block  of  the  shop,  he 

7O 


saw  to  his  surprise  it  had  not  been  opened.  A  man 
slipped  out  of  the  side  door  that  led  to  the  living  rooms 
back  of  the  store.  Antonio's  heart  gave  a  great  bound 
as  he  recognized  Luca.  For  a  moment  he  was  stunned, 
but  when  he  recovered  and  would  have  run  after  Luca, 
he  had  disappeared. 

When  he  entered  the  rooms  back  of  the  store,  Nanina 
was  preparing  breakfast  and  the  odor  of  garlic  was  in/ 
the  air.  She  did  not  look  up  but  kept  busy  about  the 
meal.  On  her  right  cheek  dyeing  her  smooth,  olive 
skin  brightly,  was  a  long  mark  as  of  a  blow.  Antonio 
came  and  stood  directly  in  front  of  her. 

"You  had  an  early  visitor,"  he  said  in  Italian,  shak- 
ing from  head  to  foot  with  passion.  She  sank  upon  her 
knees  before  the  look  in  his  eyes  and  dropping  the 
long  iron  spoon  she  held  in  her  hand,  clung  to  him 
pleading  piteously. 

"For  the  love  of  the  Mother  of  Jesus,  do  not  kill 
me — spare  my  life  and  I  will  go  away  and  never  trouble 
you  again." 

His  hand  was  about  her  throat — a  murderous  hand — 
the  hand  of  a  man  insane  from  passionate  grief,  when 
he  heard  two  little  voices,  and  Beppo  and  Juliette,  who 
had  just  awakened,  tumbled  out  of  their  bed  and 
greeted  him  joyously.  The  hand  relaxed  its  hold  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  floor  the  man  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears  and  wild  cries.  The  babies  gazed  at  him 
in  round-eyed  wonder  while  their  mother  rocked  her 
body  to  and  fro,  and  dared  not  move  to  stay  his  grief. 

Terror-stricken  at  this  unusual  state  of  affairs, 
Juliette  set  up  a  cry  in  which  Beppo  joined  her  and 
Nanina  coming  to  herself  at  last,  tried  to  quiet  them. 
Antonio  sprang  up  and  rushed  out  of  the  door,  slam- 
ming it  behind  him. 

•  What  a  day  for  the  guilty,  conscience-stricken 
woman!  How  its  long  hours  dragged  by!  She  did 
not  open  up  the  shop  at  all  and  customers  came  and 
went  away,  disappointed  and  curious.  It  was  very  late 
and  the  babies  had  been  asleep  several  hours  when  the 

71 


door  opened  and  Antonio  came  in.  He  looked  white 
and  haggard,  and  sank  into  a  chair  wearily.  It  was 
some  moments  before  he  spoke  and  then  he  said  with 
a  sneer,  looking  toward  Nanina,  who  crouched  in  a  cor- 
ner with  her  face  covered  with  her  hands : 

"Your  lover  is  safe.     I  could  not  find  him." 

The  woman  shuddered  but  said  nothing.  Her  glossy 
black  hair  gleamed  in  the  lamplight,  but  he  noticed 
that  the  red  rose  and  the  shell  comb  were  gone. 

This  then  was  the  end  of  all  his  happiness — the  new 
shop,  the  comfortable  rooms  with  their  new  furniture 
had  all  been  bought  for  this — such  a  short  space  of 
time — just  a  little  soap  bubble  of  brightness  had  the 
past  month  or  two  been — and  now  the  joy  had  vanished 
into  thin  air. 

For  such  a  length  of  time  did  Antonio  sit  staring 
wildly,  miserably  at  her,  that  Nanina,  unable  to  endure 
the  silence  longer,  lifted  her  head  at  last. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,"  she  said,  in  her 
musical  tongue  (they  could  neither  of  them  speak 
much  English),  but  in  a  wild,  excited  tone,  "let  me  tell 
you  what  I  have  to  say.  I  am  very  vile  and  wicked, 
but  I  could  not  go  away  from  you  and  Beppo  and 
Juliette,  as  Luca  begged  me  to — to  run  away  with  him 
and  take  the  money  you  gave  me  to  keep  for  you.  I 
told  him  you  had  worked  for  it  and  I  had  already 
wronged  you  enough,  and  when  I  said  that  he  was  en- 
raged and  we  quarreled  and  then  he  struck  me  a  blow 
here,"  touching  her  cheek,  "and  then  he  was  frightened 
and  hurried  away." 

Antonio's  hand  clenched  and  he  swore  beneath  his 
breath  when  she  spoke  of  the  blow. 

Nanina  sprang  up  suddenly  and  ran  to  his  chair, 
falling  at  his  feet  and  clasping  him  about  the  knees. 

"Oh,  send  me  not  away,  I  will  work  for  you  and  the 
babies,  and  ask  not  even  a  kind  word  in  return.  You 
were  always  good  to  me,  you  never  grew  angry  with 
me  or  struck.  Don't  take  the  babies  from  me." 

72 


Antonio  looked  down  at  the  adorable,  pleading  face 
with  a  wild  anguish  in  his  heart.  It  was  the  babies  she 
was  afraid  to  be  parted  from — not  from  him.  He  had 
been  too  old  to  marry  this  lovely  young  creature.  All 
the  charms  of  her  face  and  figure  were  doubly  mag- 
nified now  that  they  belonged  to  him  no  more. 

He  sat  gazing  at  her  as  one  bereft  of  reason. 

Presently  the  great  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"Nanina,  Nanina,"  he  moaned,  "y°u  never  loved  me 
— I  could  not  blame  you — you  never  loved  me." 

Timidly  she  lifted  her  great  velvet  eyes. 

"Forgive  me — forgive  me,"  she  whispered,  "I  know 
now  what  I  have  lost — if  you  could  love  me  again" — 

She  did  not  finish  for  he  lifted  her  to  his  heart  and 
held  her  there  as  though  to  hold  her  forever,  for  he 
knew,  despite  her  sin,  she  was  the  only  •woman  the 
world  held  for  him.  Her  quivering  lips  met  his,  and  in 
that  kiss  she  was  forgiven. 

And  what  of  Luca?  He  left  town — for  gallant  Luca 
was  a  sad  coward.  But  what  were  the  odds?  The 
world  was  full  of  pretty  women  and  his  heart  was  as 
free  and  his  smile  as  bright  as  ever.  His  picturesque 
face  and  figure  were  soon  as  familiar  in  his  new  haunts 
as  in  the  old  where  the  children  watched  for  the  bright, 
new  cart,  and  listened  eagerly  for  the  ting,  ting  of  his 
little  bell  upon  a  summer  afternoon. 


"MAMMY'S  CABIN." 

The  little  old  cabin  still  stands  by  the  roadside, 

Moldering  fast  to  decay; 

While  the  form  of  old  mammy,  oft  framed  by  the 
doorway, 

Has  long  since  to  dust  passed  away. 


And  still  I  can  see  her,  with  face  black  and  wrinkled 
Stand  shading  her  eyes  from  the  light, 

"Come,  chillun,  the  hoecakes  an'  taters  is  ready, 
Youse  gwine  to  be  hungry  fo'  night." 

How  we  came  running,  the  black  ones  and  white  ones, 

At  the  sound  of  that  musical  voice, 
While  in  the  cabin,  piled  high  'round  the  fire-place, 

Were  visions  that  made  us  rejoice. 

Those  faces  are  scattered — the  white  ones  and  black 
ones — 

And  the  cabin  to  earthiness  moulds. 
Yet  blessed  the  thought  of  that  dear  sunny  South-land 

And  the  sweetness  that  memory  holds. 


BOB'S  LAMENT. 

My  sister's  awful  fortunate — 

Don't  have  to  go  to  school, 
Don't  have  to  do  no  number  work, 

Nor  learn  a  single  rule; 
Don't  have  to  even  take  a  bath, 

'Cept  gets  a  spongin'  off — 
Yet  she  can  eat  just  all  she  wants — 

She's  got  the  hookin'  cough. 


She  plays  all  day  out  on  the  grass, 

And  underneath  the  trees, 
Just  listenin'  to  the  birdies  sing 

And  to  the  hummin'  bees — 
While  I'm  cooped  up  behind  my  desk, 

With  gogafy  and  slate, 
A-tryin'  to  learn  'bout  all  them  things 

You'd  ought  to  love,  but  hate. 


The  doctor  said,  "Just  keep  her  out; 

Don't  hardly  mind  the  weather." 
Sis  gave  the  cough  to  her  bestest  chum, 

And  now  they  play  together. 
My!  that  was  pretty  slick  of  sis; 

I  tried  to  do  it  too — 
Just  got  up  close  and  breaved  her  breff, 

The  way  I  oughtn't  to  do. 

75 


A'n'en  I  said  that  night  to  ma: 

"I'm  feelin'  awful  mean; 
My  froat  is  sore  and  my  head  is  hot, 

And  my  stomick's  kinder  lean; 
Now,  ma,  I'd  hate  to  miss  my  school, 

But  I'm  feelin'  drefful  queer; 
I  think  I've  got  the  hookin'  cough." 

'Nen  I  squeezed  out  a  tear. 

But  ma  ain't  got  much  sympathy ; 

She  turned  me  round  and  round, 
Looked  at  my  tongue,  felt  of  my  pulse, 

And  said,  "I  guess  you're  sound," 
Just  in  the  very  coldest  way, 

Although  she  kinder  smiled 
and  said,  "You  had  the  hookin'  cough 

When  but  a  little  child." 

This  ain't  a  very  even  world — 

Some  folks  don't  get  a  chance. 
Course  I'm  glad  to  be  a  boy, 

So  I  can  wear  the  pants. 
But  oh,  to  sit  here  at  my  desk, 

When  every  livin'  thing 
Keeps  callin',  callin'  me  to  come — 

Come  out  and  take  a  fling ! 

Refrain. 

The  birds  they  sing  just  all  the  time: 
"Come  Bob,  come  Bob,  be  off!" 

My  sister's  awful  fortunate — 
She's  got  the  hookin'  cough. 


70 


THE  GRAY  GOOSE. 

The  folds  of  the  maiden's  tunica  fell  gracefully  about 
her  slender  form.  The  large  dark  eyes  looked  larger 
set  in  the  pallor  of  her  fair  young  face,  a  face  paler 
than  its  wont,  from  lack  of  needful  nourishment.  Close 
within  her  arms  she  held  a  gaunt  gray  goose,  that 
stretched  out  its  ungainly  neck  toward  the  would-be 
destroyers  in  a  manner  that  seemed  but  to  inflame  them 
the  more. 

"Give  us  the  goose  to  eat,"  cried  one,  shaking  a 
clinched  fist. 

"Aye,  aye,"  another  cried,  "dost  thou  presume  to  feed 
this  senseless  creature,  while  men  starve  about  thee?" 

"We  hunger.  The  gray  goose  will  make  a  meal," 
affirmed  a  third. 

"The  gray  goose!  The  gray  goose!"  still  other 
voices  clamored. 

The  girl  only  drew  farther  from  them. 

"Nay,  nay,  not  so,"  she  faltered.  "If  from  my  petty 
portion — my  day's  allowance — I  slip  a  share  for  the 
sustenance  of  this  poor  bird,  what  have  you  to  say? 
I  take  naught  from  thee — nor  thee — nor  thee,"  pointing 
to  each  one  in  turn.  "Think  you  I  lack  in  love  of  my 
beloved  Rome  because  I  give  not  this  bird  unto  you? 
Have  not  the  Gauls,  our  enemies,  swept  away  my  home 
by  fire,  and  put  to  death  by  the  sword  the  only  beings 
dear  to  me,  my  mother  and  sweet  brother  who  fed  with 
his  tiny  hand  this  poor  gray  bird?" 

"For  this  do  I  give  the  creature  of  my  allowance. 
For  this  do  I  love  it.  Pitiful  as  it  may  be,  'tis  all  that 
hath  been  left  to  me  and  the  aged  grandmother  with 
whom  I  dwell." 

77 


But  the  hungry,  reckless  mob  laughed  her  to  scorn, 
closing  in  upon  her  with  cries  and  jeers.  They  were 
hungry,  these  poor  wretches;  hemmed  in  by  Gallic  in- 
vaders, wild,  barbarian  hordes  that  had  swept  like 
human  hurricanes  from  the  north,  bringing  ruin  and 
devastation  in  their  wake. 

"One  would  think  the  bird  a  sacred  creature,  one  of 
the  sacred  geese  in  Juno's  Temple,"  said  one. 

"Aye — away  with  the  paltry  sentiment  of  a  puny 
girl.  Give  us  the  goose — we  famish,"  cried  another, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  making  as  though  to  drag  the  bird 
from  her  arms. 

The  goose  uttered  a  shrill  cry  as  the  maiden  held  it 
closer  and  it  would  have  fared  but  illy  with  her  had 
not  a  strong  right  arm  pushed  back  the  ruffians. 

"Hold !  Touch  neither  the  maiden  nor  the  bird,  base 
ingrates !"  rang  out  a  voice  that  made  them  all  fall  back 
dismayed.  "Is  not  this  the  maiden  Claudia?  Forget 
ye  all /that  when  Bremius  the  Gaul  broke  up  camp  at 
Clusium  and  marched  toward  Rome  with  his  great- 
limbed,  fair-haired  giants  pouring  into  the  valley  of 
the  Tiber  like  birds  of  prey,  that  Sextus,  the  maiden's 
father,  was  one  of  those  who  met  the  Gauls  on  the 
banks  of  the  Alia?  Have  ye  forgotten  that  when  o'er- 
powered  by  numbers  the  Romans  were  compelled  to 
flee,  how  many  plunged  into  the  river,  but  Sextus  stood 
his  ground,  fighting  to  the  last  and  yielding  only  when 
his  brave  body  could  hold  no  more  Gallic  javelins? 
Have  ye  forgotten  also  that  when  the  Gauls  swept  on 
to  Rome  this  maiden's  grandsire  fled  not  with  the  old 
men,  the  women  and  the  chidren  to  Veii,  but  with  other 
Senators  as  brave  as  he,  devoted  himself  unto  the 
gods,  praying  that  upon  their  heads  might  fall  all  the 
vengeance  and  destruction?  Ye  all  know  the  story 
how  these  brave  Patricians  sat  in  the  Forum  in  robes 
of  state,  each  man  with  an  ivory  staff,  when  the  Gauls 
marched  upon  them.  So  still  and  god-like  they  sat 
that  our  enemies  beheld  them  with  wonder  and  amaze. 

78 


When  one  Gaul  bolder  than  the  rest  stroked  the  beard 
of  Papirius  he  rose  and  with  his  ivory  staff  smote  the 
offender  to  the  earth.  Then  fell  these  barbarians  upon 
the  Senators  and  slaughtered  them  with  great  slaugh- 
ter. Sire  and  grandsire  and  mother  and  brother,  too, 
hath  this  maiden  offered  up  unto  Rome.  If  she  desires 
to  share  her  petty  portion  with  this  poor  bird,  the  pet 
and  playmate  of  her  brother,  who  fell  a  victim  to  bar- 
barian rage,  have  ye  aught  to  say?  By  the  gods,  ye 
have  become  pitiful  creatures,  ye  men  of  Rome." 

Tall  and  strong  stood  the  soldier  Manlius  before 
them,  in  short  tunic,  with  breastplate  and  helmet,  his 
hand  upon  his  sword  hilt,  for  these  were  troublous 
times  and  each  man  wore  his  armor  night  and  day. 

The  girl's  dark  eyes  were  lifted  to  the  face  of  her 
protector. 

"May  the  blessing  of  the  gods  go  with  thee,"  she 
murmured,  slipping  through  the  crowd  that  had  fallen 
back  shame-facedly  at  the  soldier's  words. 

These  were  unhappy  times  for  Rome.  At  the  foot  of 
the  steep  cliffs  the  Gauls  were  stationed,  and  while 
Rome  was  besieged  other  Gallic  hordes  swept  through 
Italy  with  fire  and  sword. 

With  fluttering  heart  the  girl  fled  to  her  abode, 
where  she  dwelt  alone  save  for  the  aged  grandmother, 
who,  when  the  women  of  Rome  had  fled  to  Veii,  re- 
fused to  leave  her  beloved  city. 

"Here  have  I  lived,  here  have  my  beloved  ones  been 
foully  slain — here  will  I  die,"  she  had  said,  and  Claudia 
remained  with  her.  Upon  Capitoline  Hill  they  had 
come  for  greater  safety,  as  its  steep  scarped  cliffs  made 
it  almost  unscalable. 

"Manlius,  brave  Manlius  hath  stooped  to  preserve 
thee,"  Claudia  whispered  to  the  ungainly  bird,  stroking 
its  head,  "and  now  I  have  another  cause  to  love  thee. 
We  will  forget  not  his  clemency,  thou  and  I." 

"Oh,  men  of  Rome,"  cried  Manlius,  turning  to  the 
rabble  after  the  maiden  had  gone,  with  a  sweep  of  his 

79 


hand  toward  the  valley,  "there  below  have  ye  that 
which  is  more  worthy  of  your  mettle  than  a  fragile 
maiden  and  one  of  your  own  race.  Save  your  strength 
for  the  hour  which  is  of  a  surety  at  hand."  And  he 
turned  away. 

Tall,  strong  of  limb,  yet  lithely  made  was  Manlius, 
his  brown  limbs  showing  round  and  firm  beneath  his 
short  tunic  and  his  breastplate  covering  a  chest  of 
goodly  proportions.  Toward  the  riverside  he  made  his 
way  and  stood  looking  out  over  the  country  below. 

The  shades  of  night  were  beginning  to  fall,  but  he 
could  see  as  in  a  mist  the  moving  figures  of  the  Gauls 
below.  He  lifted  the  helmet  that  the  soft  air  might 
fan  his  brow  and  stood  thinking  of  many  things. 
When  would  this  besieged  city  find  relief?  If  the 
Romans  could  but  meet  the  Gauls  again  in  open  fight — 
but  to  be  hemmed  up  thus  inert  and  helpless — ah,  how 
galling  for  his  restless  spirit!  And  to  what  baseness 
had  his  fellow  soldiers  descended  when  they  could  try 
to  seize  from  a  puny  girl  her  one  treasure. 

The  maiden — how  large  and  beautiful  were  her  eyes ! 
How  slender  and  graceful  her  form!  But  of  what  was 
he  thinking?  'Twas  no  time  for  soft  thoughts — better 
try  to  devise  some  way  to  scatter  the  barbarian  hordes 
at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs. 

Hark!  what  sound  was  that?  Manlius'  hand  was 
upon  his  dagger.  Nearer  and  nearer  it  came.  'Twas 
from  the  cliffs  below.  In  the  darkness  a  head  loomed 
up  not  a  foot  from  him.  Manlius  seized  the  intruder 
in  a  grasp  of  iron. 

"Who  goes  there!" 

"Sh!  A  friend.  Unhand  me  and  I  will  tell  thee  my 
mission." 

As  Manlius  for  a  moment  loosed  his  hold  a  youth 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  hill  and  stood  beside  him. 

"I  am  Pontius  Corinius  of  the  Patricians  at  Veii  and 
come  with  a  message  to  the  Senate.  By — Great  Jove ! 
I  had  like  to  have  had  my  perilous  journey  for  naught, 

so 


good  Roman,  for  thy  grip  came  near  hurling  me  back 
on  the  rocks  below." 

"And  thou  hast  of  a  truth  come  up  this  cliff  and 
made  the  ascent  unobserved  by  the  enemy?"  inquired 
Manlius  in  amazement. 

"Up  the  cliffs,  in  very  truth  and  unobserved  I  fondly 
hope,"  answered  the  youth,  "but  I  must  hasten,  for  my 
message  is  of  moment  and  my  time  is  very  brief." 

When  Pontius  had  imparted  unto  the  Senate  the 
wish  of  the  people  of  Veii  to  recall  Camillus  and  make 
him  Dictator,  he  departed  again  the  same  way  in  safety. 
But  the  clear,  cold  blue  eyes  of  the  barbarians  were 
sharp.  By  the  light  of  the  morning  two  fair-haired 
Gauls  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  heights  on  the 
riverside,  when  one  caught  sight  of  a  mark  in  the  rock 
near  him." 

"Behold !"  he  cried,  "it  is  a  footmark — and  another — 
and  another,  one  above  and  yet  another.  Some  one' 
hath  climbed  the  cliff  in  the  night.  See,  here  are  marks 
where  he  hath  caught  the  tufted  grass  for  support." 

"Where  one  man  hath  climbed  another  may  follow," 
answered  his  companion.  "Come,  let  us  hasten  and 
make  known  unto  our  chief  this  discovery.  Perchance 
we  may  find  a  way  to  reach  the  top  of  Capitoline  Hill." 

After  consultation  with  their  chief,  a  party  of  the 
bravest  and  strongest  was  chosen  to  make  the  attempt 
to  climb  where  had  climbed  the  brave  youth  Pontius. 

Weird  figures  were  these  that  after  nightfall  crept 
slowly  one  man  behind  the  other  up  the  rocks.  Around 
their  bodies  were  girt  the  skins  of  wild  beasts,  each 
man's  javelin  was  bound  at  his  side  that  it  might  not 
delay  his  progress.  Silently  like  ghostly  figures  they 
crept  on  and  on,  and  up  and  up  the  mountain  side. 

All  unconscious  of  the  approach  of  the  enemy,  up  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  near  the  Temple  of  Juno,  lay  Manlius, 
thinking  sometimes  of  Rome  and  her  troubles,  again  of 
the  brave  young  Pontius  or  again  of  a  slender  form 
and  a  pair  of  large,  dark  eyes.  To-day  he  had  gone 

81 


to  the  abode  of  the  aged  grandmother  to  reatesure 
Claudia  that  the  gray  goose  would  be  spared  to  her, 
for  would  she  not  be  anxious?  'Twas  his  duty  as  a 
soldier  and  her  protector  to  calm  her  fears. 

At  last  he  fell  asleep.  How  long  he  slept  he  knew 
not,  when  the  shrill,  unpleasant  cackle  of  a  goose 
awakened  him.  Ever  on  the  alert  for  any  sound,  he 
roused  up,  seizing  his  arms. 

A  goose  flapped  its  wings  and  cackled  loudly  near 
him.  'Twas  Claudia's  bird.  It  must  have  wandered 
away.  Scarcely  had  he  time  to  think  when  the  sacred 
geese  kept  in  the  Temple  of  Juno  caught  up  the  cry 
with  cackling  and  screaming  and  flapping  of  wings  that 
aroused  all  the  soldiers  from  their  sleep. 

Fully  awake  and  keenly  alert  Manlius  became  aware 
of  a  noise  that  came  from  the  cliff  below.  Rushing  to 
the  edge  he  beheld  to  his  amazement  the  dark,  shaggy 
objects  crawling  slowly  up  the  mountain  side.  Great 
Jove!  The  Gauls! 

"The  Gauls,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  as  the  foremost 
man  appeared,  with  one  mighty  effort,  he  seized  him, 
powerless,  thus  taken  by  surprise,  and  sent  him 
hurtling  backward  against  the  men  below.  Toppling 
one  against  the  other  like  a  human  avalanche,  the  bar- 
barians were  hurled  to  the  valley  below.  The  air  re- 
sounded with  the  cries  of  the  Gauls,  the  mocking  im- 
precations of  the  Romans.  Javelins  went  clanging 
against  the  rocks  and  the  Gauls,  who  still  clung  to  the 
tufts  of  grass  on  the  rocky  sides  were  pierced  by  Ro- 
man spears.  Capitoline  Hill  was  soon  full  of  excited 
crowds. 

Cry  after  cry  rang  out  for  Manlius. 

"Come,"  they  cried,  "We  •will  give  him  each  of  his 
day's  allowance  of  food,  that  he  may  have  a  greater 
portion,  for  Manlius  hath  saved  Rome." 

By  the  light  of  the  glaring  torches  the  hero  saw  a 
slender  form  in  the  background  and  large,  soft  eyes 

82 


that  looked  their  devotion.  With  a  quick  movement  he 
drew  the  shrinking  girl  to  his  side. 

Taking  the  gray  goose  from  her  arms  he  held  it 
aloft. 

"Hear,  men  of  Rome,"  he  cried.  "The  gray  goose 
which  ye  have  despised,  not  I,  hath  saved  Rome.  Had 
the  bird  not  cackled  at  the  noise  of  the  Gallic  feet  I 
would  not  have  wakened  and  by  this  hour  we  would 
all  of  us  have  been  lying  wrapped  in  the  slumber  of 
death." 

Then  letting  the  bird  go  he  put  his  arms  about  the 
girl. 

"This  maiden  hath  tended  the  goose,  so  unto  her  I 
pray  you  give  the  honor,"  and  when  they  shouted  with 
loud  acclamations  she  hid  her  blushing  face  against  his 
breast  and  he  kissed  her  before  them  all,  for  those  were 
days  when  the  world  was  young  and  men  wooed  boldly. 


"LITTLE  MARS  RICHARD." 

"Ef  you  chillun  don'  quit  pesterin'  me  fur  a  story 
somet'ing's  gwine  to  drap,  an'  it  won'  be  nothin'  light, 
I  kin  tell  you,"  and  Aunt  Geranium  "squinted  up"  her 
eyes,  frowned  and  looked  menacingly  at  the  pickanin- 
nies, big  and  little,  ranged  about  the  cabin  door.  Not  a 
word  was  said  in  reply,  for  the  children  and  their  elders 
knew  as  well  as  did  Aunt  Geranium  herself  that  she 
was  "itching"  to  tell  them  one  of  her  stories  of  ante- 
bellum days,  of  which  she  had  such  an  inexhaustible 
fund. 

"Yo'  all  mus'  take  me  fur  a  reg'lar  walkin'  cyclopegy, 
the  way  yo'  acts,"  she  said  again,  putting  her  hands 
down  into  her  pocket  and  drawing  out  an  old  clay  pipe 
and  a  bag  of  tobacco — a  sure  forerunner  of  a  tale. 

A  dead  silence  reigned  as  she  filled  and  lighted  her 
pipe,  puffing  away  deliberately  for  some  moments  with 
closed  eyes,  apparently  unconscious  of  everything 
around  her. 

The  air  was  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  flowers  and 
filled  with  the  hum  and  buzz  of  insect  life.  Butterflies 
flitted  in  and  out  among  the  sunflowers  and  hollyhocks 
against  the  old  log  fence.  In  the  field  near  by  was 
Calvin  with  the  plow  and  the  old  white  mule.  Now 
and  then  his  voice  came  floating  to  them  through  the 
summer  air  as  he  held  converse  with  the  mule.  "Go 
'long,  yo'  ole  fool,  yo'.  T'ink  I  got  all  day  to  spen' 
heah."  Or,  again:  "Git  up,  Solomon.  What  yo'  done 
take  me  fur,  a  creepm'  snail?" 

The  pickaninnies  dug  their  toes  into  the  dirt  and 
waited  patiently.  Andrew  Jackson,  bolder  than  the 
rest,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Aunt 

84 


Geranium  smoked  away  placidly  until  she  finished  her 
pipe,  knocking  the  ashes  out  against  her  wrinkled 
horny  hand,  after  which  she  proceeded  to  refill  and  re- 
light. Presently  she  leaned  forward  with  her  elbows 
resting  on  her  knees.  The  children  scarcely  breathed ; 
a  story  was  coming  now  surely. 

"Since  yo'  all  won'  quit  talkin'  an'  worry  in'  me  I 
guess  I'll  have  to  tell  yo'  somet'ing  to  get  rid  ob  yo'." 

"I  don'  know,"  she  added,  retrospectively,  "what  put 
ole  Gen'rul  Mountjoy  in  my  min'.  Seem  like  I  wuz 
lookin'  at  him  dis  heah  berry  minute.  He  usen  to  set  in 
front  ob  our  fokes,  de  Peytons,  ob  Glenview,  at  chu'ch 
. — in  days  when  I  wuz  a  likely  gal  and  deah  young 
Mis'  Peyton's  maid.  He  wuz  an  ole  man  even  in  them 
days,  but  he  wuz  straight  an'  tall,  an'  what  a  figgah  he 
had  fur  a  man  putty  nigh  on  to  eighty  years,  fokes  said. 
He  didn't  dress  like  none  ob  de  othah  gen'1'men  'roun'. 
Dey  dress  den  somet'ing  like  dey  do  now'days,  but  ole 
Gen'rul  he  look  like  he  step  out  ob  some  ole  portrit  ob 
Gawge  Wash'n'ton.  His  face  wuz  smooth  an'  his  har 
wuz  tied  back  wid  black  ribbon  in  a  sort  of  'kewey.'  A 
bu'ful  ves'  all  covered  wid  flowahs  wuz  allus  buttoned 
inside  his  coat,  all  trim  wid  braid  an'  brass  buttons, 
an'  his  pants  come  jes'  to  his  knees.  He  wo'  fine  silk 
hosen  an'  low  shoes  wid  buckles  ob  real  silber  on  'em. 

"Oh,  he  wuz  a  gen'1'man  liken  yo'  don'  see  now'- 
days, I  kin  tell  yo'.  My  Laws,  chillen,  de  people  dat 
usen  to  drive  up  in  dere  kerridges  to  dat  ole  church ! — 
Why  yo'  all  ain't  got  no  ideah  what  real  white  fokes 
look  like.  Proud  an'  high-steppin'  dey  wuz,  liken 
young  hawses — the  gen'l'men  in  top  boots  an'  ridin' 
coats  an'  the  ladies  in  silk  an'  satins  an'  bu'ful  bonnets 
all  trimmed  wid  flowahs  an'  wid  bunches  ob  curls 
hangin'  each  side  ob  dere  putty  faces. 

"Ole  Gen'rul  Mountjoy  wuz  a  great  man  fur  de 
ladies — he  had  been  married  free  times  an'  wuz  as 
libely  'roun'  de  ladies  as  evah  in  his  ole  age,  kissin' 
dere  han's  an'  bowin'  low  wid  old-time  grace,  as  my 

85 


missus  usen  to  say.  Ole  Gabe  was  Mars  Mountjoy's 
coachman,  an'  he  wuz  as  proud  an  ole  niggah  as  you'd 
evah  want  to  see,  holdin'  up  his  haid  fur  all  de  worl' 
liken  his  marster,  an'  when  dey  come  rollin'  to  chu'ch 
in  dere  coach  an'  fo'  ef  dey  wuzn't  a  sight  I'll  eat  my 
turban." 

"Why,  Aunt  Geran'um,  yo'  couldn't  eat  yo'  turban," 
broke  in  Andrew  Jackson,  thoughtlessly.  "It  would 
choke  yo'." 

She  glared  savagely  upon  him.  "Ef  yo'  don'  shet  yo' 
mouf,  boy,  I'se  gwine  to  bust  yo'  haid  open.  Don'  yo' 
know  I  wuz  only  speakin'  figitatiously,"  and  then,  as  if 
in  punishment  for  this  interruption,  she  sat  puffing 
away  for  some  minutes,  although  her  pipe  was  out,  and 
looked  over  their  heads  into  the  distance.  When  the 
spirit  moved  her,  she  began  again. 

"Ole  Mars  Mountjoy  had  one  daughtah,  Missus 
Joshway  Scott.  She  wuzn't  very  young  herse'f,  mos' 
fifty,  an'  it  kin'  ob  bothered  her,  kase  her  fathah  was 
sech  on  ole  beau  an'  fokes  said  he  wuz  in  his  dotage. 
Well,  he  didn't  concentuate  his  'fections  on  any  one 
lady,  until  one  day  fokes  begun  to  notice  he  wuz  kin' 
ob  shinin'  up  to  Mis'  M'ria  Cartah.  Miss  Cartah  wuz 
an  ole  maid,  kin'  ob  quiet  an'  plain-lookin',  but  he  usen 
to  set  an'  look  at  her  like  he  thought  she  wuz  a  bu'ty. 
De  ole  chu'ch  wuz  a  quee'ah  shape,  built  liken  a  cross, 
wid  a  soundin'  bo'ad  ovah  de  preachah's  haid.  Ole 
Gen'rul  set  in  the  main  body  ob  de  chu'ch  an'  Miss 
M'ria  set  in  one  ob  de  ahms,  so  he  could  look  at  her  to 
his  heart's  content,  an'  the  way  he'd  look  an'  smile — 
my  laws,  I  don'  wondah  dat  woman  had  her  haid  kin' 
ob  turned  like,  kase  she  wuz  so  plain-lookin'  an'  I 
don't  s'pose  she  nevah  had  no  othah  beau  in  her  life. 
Ladies  wuz  mighty  putty  in  them  days,  an'  plain  ones 
didn't  git  much  show.  Well,  putty  soon  Ole  Gen'rul 
got  to  takin'  her  home  from  chu'ch  in  his  coach  an'  fo', 
wid  ole  Gabe  disgusted  nuff  on  de  seat  in  front. 
Bimeby  fokes  said  dey  wuz  gwine  to  git  married. 

so 


"When  Mis'  Joshuway  Scott,  that  wuz  ole  Gen'rul's 
daughtah,  heard  de  talk,  my,  wasn't  she  mad!  So 
Mahaly  told  me.  Mahaly  wuz  Mis'  Scott's  maid,  a 
likely  yaller  gal,  de  same  dat  mar'ied  Pete  Johnson 
after  de  wah  an'  went  to  Wash'n'ton. 

"Mahaly  said  Mis'  Scott  bundled  into  her  coach  an' 
went  ovah  to  see  Miss  M'ria  to  argify  wid  her  'bout  dat 
mar'iage.  Miss  M'ria  wuz  a  po'  meek  little  'ooman  an' 
Mis'  Scott  wuz  a  gre't  big  one,  so  I  'spose  she  done 
ovah-powahad  her  or  argified  her  down.  Howsomevah 
dat  wuz,  de  mar'iage  didn't  come  off.  But  bless  yo' 
soul,  honey,  de  ole  Gen'rul  wuzn't  to  be  got  roun'  dat 
away  when  he  got  mar'ying  in  his  haid.  What  he  do 
when  Mis'  Scott  went  to  White  Sulphah  Springs  fur 
de  summah  but  up  an'  marry  a  widdah,  young  nuff  to 
be  his  gran'daughtah."  And  Aunt  Geranium  took  her 
pipe  from  her  mouth  and  indulged  in  a  series  of 
chuckles,  which  finally  developed  into  a  prolonged  fit 
of  laughter  that  made  her  fairly  hold  her  sides. 

Her  mirth  was  so  irresistibly  contagious  that  the 
pickaninnies  grinned,  bold  Andrew  Jackson  breaking 
into  an  audible  laugh,  which  had  the  effect  of  calming 
Aunt  Geranium  immediately.  She  gave  him  a  look 
that  froze  the  mirth  upon  his  little  black  face. 

"What  yo'  laughin'  fur,  yo'  imp?  I  ain't  tellin' 
jokes  fur  yo'  ben'fit.  Ain't  yo'  got  no  sense,  no  way?" 
After  which  reproof  the  autocrat  of  the  cabin  took  up 
the  thread  of  her  story. 

"I  allus  have  to  bust  laffin'  when  I  t'ink  ob  dat  mar- 
'iage. Dat  widdah  done  led  de  ole  Gen'rul  a  dance, 
yo'  may  be  shuah.  She  drug  him  to  de  Springs  an' 
resorts  an'  danced  an'  went  flyin'  'roun'  wid  young 
men,  an'  de  ole  man  didn't  do  nothin'  but  set  'roun'  an' 
sigh.  Well,  at  las'  dere  come  a  baby  to  Mount  Mount- 
joy — dat  wuz  ole  Gen'rul's  home,  an'  Mis'  Scott  she 
bustled  ovah  to  her  fathah's  house,  which  she  hadn't 
entered  since  his  last  mar'iage. 

"Dat  'ooman  wan'  fit  to  hab  the  care  ob  a  chile — she 

87 


wuz  too  giddy  an'  light-haided,  so  Mis'  Scott  tole  Ma- 
haly.  'Specially  the  future  heir  ob  her  fathah's  house." 

"His  mothah  didn't  keer.  She  wuz  willin'  to  gib  up 
de  baby.  Fac'  wuz,  she  didn't  wan'  de  care  ob  a  baby, 
nohow.  Ole  Gen'rul,  he  wuz  willin'  fur  his  wife  to  hab 
her  way  in  eberything,  he  wuz  so  crazy  haided  'bout 
her — so  Mahaly  carried  de  chile  in  her  arms  all  de  way 
to  Carmona  Hall,  which  wuz  Mis'  Scott's  place,  wid 
Mis'  Scott  settin'  up  anxious  an'  worried  like  in  de 
coach  beside  her,  an'  askin'  ebery  minute  or  two  ef  de 
baby  wuz  wahm  or  cohered  up  .  My  Laws,  but  dat 
wuz  a  pretty  baby,  an'  how  sweet  he  growed  up, 
straight  an'  "white,  wid  long  curls  hangin'  down  his 
back!  Ole  Gen'rul  died  not  long  aftah  Mis'  Scott  took 
him,  an'  young  Mis'  wuz  a  gay  widdah  once  mo',  wid 
lots  ob  money,  an'  she  wuz  glad  'nuff  not  to  be  both- 
ered wid  him,  only  to  come  to  see  him  now  an'  then 
an'  sen'  him  presents. 

"He  wuz  sech  a  putty,  blessed  baby  that  ev'  man, 
'ooman  an'  chile,  black  or  white,  roun'  the  country 
lubbed  him.  He  usen  to  come  into  chu'ch  holdin' 
Mis'  Scott's  han',  warin'  a  blue  velvet  suit,  an'  wid  his 
long  yaller  curls  fallin'  roun'  his  shouldahs  an'  callin' 
Mis'  Scott  'sistah,'  tho'  she  look  mo'  like  his  gran'ma. 

"How  ole  Mis'  Scott  lub  dat  chile !  He  usen  to  ride 
beside  de  coach  on  his  little  pony,  his  curls  flyin'  in  de 
breeze  an'  now  an'  then  he'd  turn  to  ole  Mis'  an'  throw 
her  a  kiss — then  dash  away  like  de  win',  his  cheeks 
glowin'  an'  his  eyes  shinin'  like  stars  in  de  firmamen' 
ob  hebben. 

"I  t'ink  I  lub  dat  chile  mos'  as  much  as  ole  Mis'  did. 
Yo*  see,  Mahaly  tuk  vewy  sick,  an'  as  my  young  Mis' 
was  married,  ole  Mis'  Peyton  sent  me  to  Mis'  Scott's. 
Dat's  de  way  I  got  so  well  'quainted  wid  dat  boy,  an'  I 
didn't  wondah  ole  Mis'  Scott  fairly  worship  him.  She 
didn't  hab  no  chillun  ob  her  own  an'  de  strings  ob  her 
heart  jes'  woun'  roun'  an'  roun'  dat  boy  like  them  boa 
anacondin's  our  preachah  wuz  tellin'  'bout  las'  Lawd's 


day,  roun'  de  prey  dey's  gwine  to  eat.  Not  dat  ole  Mis' 
wanted  to  eat  dat  chile,  but  she  jes'  held  him  to  her 
heart  dat  tight. 

"His  mothah  come  to  see  him,  as  I  done  tole  you, 
once  in  a  while,  bringin'  him  presents  an'  givin'  him 
a  little  peck  ob  a  kiss.  He  wuz  allus  kin'  ob  shy  ob 
her,  clingin'  to  ole  Mis'  dress  an'  seemin'  to  feel  she 
wuz  a  sort  ob  a  stranger  an'  didn't  really  keer  to  be 
bothered  wid  him. 

"But  one  day  she  come  an'  eb'rything  wuz  different ; 
she  wuz  ve'y  gracious  an'  kin'  to  little  Mars  Richard, 
bringin'  him  a  new  velvet  suit  an'  a  ridin'  whip  with 
a  gol'  handle.  She  wuz  a  putty  'ooman,  wid  shinin'  eyes 
an'  gol'  har  like  little  Mars,  an'  she  wuz  dress  up  in 
great  style  wid  hoop-skirts  an'  big  sleeves.  A  tall 
gran'  lokin'  gen'l'man  wuz  wid  her;  wid  eyes  an'  har 
as  black  as  night.  What  yo'  t'ink,  chillen,  dat  'ooman 
interjuice  dat  man  to  ole  Mis',  he  bowin'  ve'y  low,  as 
her  husban'.  Ole  Mis'  return  the  bow,  putty  stiff-like, 
an'  young  Mis'  went  on  gushin'  an'  talkin'  like  she  wuz 
done  woun'  up,  tellin'  ob  all  de  places  she'd  done  went 
to,  New  York  an'  Europy  an'  all  dem  towns.  Bimeby 
she  done  ask,  puttin'  on  de  sweetes',  gentles'  tone,  fur 
little  Mars. 

"I  wuz  windin'  wool  fur  ole  Mis'  knittin'  in  de  nex* 
room,  an'  I  hear  an'  see  all  dat  wuz  goin'  on. 

"Little  Mars  Richard  come  in  putty  soon,  wid  his 
shinin'  eyes  an'  har  an'  rosy  cheeks  an'  ran  straight  to 
ole  Mis'.  Young  Mis'  says,  sof  like: 

"Ain't  yo'  goin'  to  speak  to  yo'  mothah,  chile?" 

"His  face  change  kin'  ob  grave  in  a  minute  an'  he 
went  ovah  an'  let  her  kiss  his  cheek  an'  put  out  his 
little  han'  to  the  gen'l'man. 

"  'This  is  yo'  new  papa,  my  luv,'  says  young  Mis' 
to  interjuice  the  man,  an'  I  seen  ole  Mis'  turn  pale  in  a 
minute.  I  t'ink  fur  de  firs'  time  it  struck  her  what  wuz 
comin'. 

"  'My  deah  Mis'  Scott,'  young  Mis'  says  so  sugar- 
so 


like,  'I  don'  know  how  to  thank  yo'  fur  all  yo'  kin'ness 
to  my  boy  all  dese  yeahs,  but  I  feel  yo'  hab  had  yo' 
share  ob  care  an'  I  want  to  relieb  yo'  now  I  am  once 
mo'  settled  in  life.' 

"I  ain't  nevah  gwine  to  furgit  ole  Mis'  face  to  my 
dyin'  day.  It  wuz  white  as  ripe  cotton,  an'  when  she 
spoke  I  skeersly  knowed  her  voice,  it  wuz  so  changed. 

"  'Yo'  mean  yo'  wan'  to  take  my  chile  from  me — ' 

"Young  Mis'  hel'  up  bof  her  dainty  han's.  'Oh,  my 
deah  Mis'  Scott,  don',  I  beg  yo',  put  it  dat  way,'  she 
began,  but  ole  Mis'  Scott  stop  her. 

"  'I've  been  the  only  mothah  the  boy  has  evah! 
known,  but  you  wish  to  tear  us  apart  now.  By  all 
the  laws  of  God  you  have  no  right  to  de  chile,  but 
man's  law  'lows  yo'  to  take  him.  I  hab  nothin'  mo'  to 
say.  Yo'  know  what  I  t'ink.' 

"Young  Mis'  begun  to  talk  an'  'pologize,  but  ole 
Mis'  wouldn't  say  a  word,  but  sat  dere  proud  an' 
col'  like,  an'  wouldn't  open  her  haid.  All  de  while 
little  Mars  kept  staring  kin'  ob  'quisitiously  from  one 
to  anudder,  an'  when  he  realize  what  it  all  meant  he 
threw  his  ahms  about  ole  Mis'  an'  sob  an'  cry  dat  he 
wan'  gwine  to  leab  his  deah  sistah. 

"Well,  de  shotup  ob  it  all  wuz  dat,  dat  young  'ooman 
had  her  way,  an'  she  took  de  boy  'way  wid  her,  an' 
ole  Mis'  look  thin  an'  white  an'  miserably  sad.  Some- 
howe  de  light  done  lef  Carmona  Hall  an'  de  worl'  seem 
dark  an'  col'  an'  cheerless." 

Aunt  Geranium  coughed  and  wiped  her  eyes  with 
the  corner  of  her  apron.  "Dis  heah  smoke  gits  in  my 
ole  eyes  today  somehow,"  she  said,  evasively. 

"An*  didn't  dat  chile  nebbah  come  back,  Aunt 
Geranium?"  queried  the  irrepressible  Andrew  Jackson, 
after  the  pause  had  been  of  unbearable  duration. 

Strange  to  say  she  did  not  dart  upon  him  menacingly 
for  the  question.  "Oh,  yes,  he  come  back,"  she  re- 
plied, in  an  absent  way,  speaking  more  to  herself  than 
to  her  audience;  "he  come  back,  po'  baby!  Ole  Mis' 

no 


got  a  lettah  one  day  dat  made  her  flop  ovah  on  de  flo' 
in  a  heap,  an'  when  she  come  to  she  pack  up  in  a  hurry 
an'  wen'  away. 

"When  she  come  back  she  brung  little  Mars  wid  her, 
not  dancin'  an'  flyin'  along  at  her  side  like  he  usen  to, 
but  vety  still  an'  quiet,  fur  dey  bring  him  in  his  coffin. 

"They  laid  him  in  de  pariah  dat  night  an'  young 
Mis',  she'd  come  'long,  too.  She  hung  ovah  him  all 
night  long,  cryin'  an'  sobbin'  as  if  her  heart  would  bust. 
Seem  like  she  done  come  to  her  senses,  an'  she  kep' 
say  in' :  'Oh,  my  po'  neglected  baby,  ef  God  would  only 
gib  yo'  back  to  me  I  would  be  so  good  to  yo'.' 

"But  Gawd  didn't  hear  her  prayah.  He  wanted  dat 
chile  hisse'f.  He  was  too  good  for  dis  wicked  woiT,  an 
de  'tyfo'  fevah  done  took  him  out  ob  it.  All  night  long 
de  niggahs  outside  in  de  cabins  moaned  an'  groaned 
ovah  po'  little  Mars,  but  ole  Mis'  set  ve'y  still  an'  quiet 
an'  nevah  made  a  soun'. 

"Dey  buried  him  in  dey  fambly  groun'  'side  de  ole 
Gen'rul,  an'  aftah  a  time  ole  Mis'  she  died  an'  de  wah 
broke  out  an'  de  place  fell  to  rack  an'  ruin — an'  it  all 
seems  like  a  dream  dat  deah  little  Mars  Richard  evah 
done  lib  at  all." 

Slowly  the  tears  trickled  between  the  wrinkled  fin- 
gers. She  was  crying  now  and  did  not  try  to  hide  it, 
but,  looking  up  presently  and  seeing  Andrew  Jackson 
digging  his  black  fists  into  his  eyes,  she  said  with  a 
return  of  her  old-time  sarcasm: 

"What  you'  blubberin'  'bout  t'ings  dat  don'  concern 
yo'  an'  yo'  ain't  got  no  interest  in,  fur?  'Pears  to  me 
like  yo'  ain't  got  no  mo*  sense  'n  Calvin's  ole  mule 
yondah." 


91 


MRS.   GADABOUT'S    BUSY    DAY. 

Characters :    Mr.  Gadabout,  Mrs.  Gadabout,  Bridget. 

SCENE. — Living-room,  Table,  Chairs,  Pictures,  etc. 

Enter  Mr.  Gadabout,  wearing  hat  and  coat;  his 
arms  full  of  bundles.  Throws  down  parcels. 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "I  think  I  have  them  all — (counts 
on  fingers)  let's  see — two  magazines,  a  package  of 
coffee,  box  of  blocks  for  Tommy,  doll  for  Daisy,  en- 
velopes and  paper,  package  of  tacks,  two  yards  of  tur- 
key red — I  believe  that's  the  name,  turkey  red.  Don't 
think  I  forgot  anything."  (Takes  off  coat  and  hat  and 
sits  down  in  an  easy  chair  with  his  newspaper.)  "What 
a  relief  to  get  home  after  a  busy  day  in  town.  A  man's 
pretty  lucky  to  have  a  nice  quiet  home  to  come  to  after 
the  turmoil  and  worry  of  business  cares.  I  wonder 
where  Mrs.  Gadabout  is? 

(Enter  Bridget.) 

Bridget.     "Shall  I  serve  dinner,  sor?" 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Where  is  Mrs.  Gadabout,  Bridget?" 

Bridget.    "Please,  sor,  she  hasn't  came  home  yit." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Hasn't  come  home?"  (Looks  at  his 
watch.)  "Why,  it's  six  o'clock.  Is  dinner  ready?" 

Bridget.  "Yis,  sor,  and  it's  looky  ye  are,  if  ye  have 
any  dinner  at  all,  at  all,  tonight  sor.  The  stove  pipe 
fell  down  and  the  devil  of  a  time  I  had  gittin'  it  up, 
wid  soot  all  over  me  clane  kitchen  floor  and  messin'  up 
everything,  it  bein'  wash  day,  too,  n'd  me  hands  full 
of  work  and  the  Misses  away  and  the  childer  to  look 
after." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (impatiently).  "Go  tell  your  troubles 
to  a  policeman,  Bridget." 

Bridget.    "If  it's  insinooatin'  ye  are  that  I'm  intimit 

93 


wid  de  polaceman — I'd  like  ye  to  know  ye're  mistaken, 
sor — me  notions  is  much  higher,  sor." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (hastily).  "No,  no,  Bridget— that's 
just  a  saying."  (Aside.)  "She'll  leave  if  I  offend  her, 
and  she's  been  with  us  so  long — two  weeks,  I  think." 
(Takes  up  paper  again.) 

Bridget  (lingering).  "Plaze,  sor,  the  new  neighbors 
says  if  you  don't  kape  Tommy  down  off  the  fence, 
makin'  faces  and  callin'  of  em  names,  they'll  thrash 
him." 

.Mr.  Gadabout.  "Tell  them  to  go  ahead.  I'd  like  to 
have  the  job  taken  off  my  hands :"  (Aside.)  "I'm  en- 
joying this  newspaper." 

Bridget  (still  lingering).  "The  milkman  left  his  bill 
today,  sor.  He  says  as  how  he'd  loike  to  see  a  little 
of  the  color  of  your  ;money,  sor." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (aside).  "I'm  so  glad  I  came  home. 
Any  more  news,  Bridget?"  (Puts  down  paper.) 

Bridget.  "Yis,  sor.  Daisy  fell  into  a  tub  of  water 
and  got  all  soakin'  and  I  had  to  change  all  her  clothes — 
it  being  wash  day,  too,  and  me  hands  full  of  work." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Yes,  I've  heard  it  was  wash  day — 
something  else?" 

Bridget.  "Yis,  sor.  The  plastering  fell  down  in 
the  front  bed  room,  and  as  sure  as  I  hopes  to  be  for- 
given for  my  sins,  I  didn't  do  it,  sor — me  being  down 
in  the  laundry  washing  at  the  same  toime,  sor." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (aside).  "How  restful  to  get  home 
after  a  busy  day  in  the  office.  Go  on,  Bridget." 

Bridget.     "I  think  that's  all,  sor." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "All !  Oh,  no,  that  can't  be  all ;  you 
must  have  forgotten  something." 

Bridget  (looking  thoughtfully)  "Well,  no,  unless  it 
be  Tommy  troopin'  in  over  me  clane  floor,  wid  about 
tin  byes  and  me  clanin'  and  scrubbin'  from  mornin'  'till 
night.  I  don't  spose  you  want  dinner  yet,  sor?" 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "No,  wait  a  while,  Mrs.  Gadabout 
will  realize  she  has  a  home  some  time  soon,  I  suppose." 


93 


Bridget.     "All  right,  sor." 

(Exit  Bridget.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Well,  now  I'll  have  a  little  peace 
I  hope."  (Begins  to  read  paper.  Telephone  bell  rings 
violently.  Mr.  Gadabout  jumps  up  angrily  and  goes 
to  phone.)  "Hello!  Hello!  What!— Oh!  the  phone's 
all  right,  is  it?" 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Well,  who  said  it  wasn't?  Oh! 
you  just  rung  up  to  say  it  was  all  right.  Haven't  you 
got  anything  else  to  do?"  (Bangs  receiver  into  place 
and  leaves  the  phone.)  (Stalking  to  his  chair,) 
"That's  a  fine  thing  to  call  a  man  up  for — to  say  the 
phone's  all  right.  I've  got  a  great  show  to  rest  in  this 
house."  (Sits  down  again  and  takes  up  paper — phone 
rings  again  violently.) 

Mr.  Gadabout  (disgustedly).  "Phone's  still  all  right, 
I  suppose."  (Jumps  up  and  takes  receiver.)  "What  is 
it?  Oh!  this  is  Birdie,  is  it?  Who  is  this?  Well,  this 
is  Sweetie.  You've  got  the  wrong  number;  ring  off, 
Birdie."  (Sits  down  again  and  takes  up  paper.) 

(Enters  Mrs.  Gadabout  in  street  costume.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Am  I  late,  dearie?  Well,  I'm 
nearly  dead.  Such  a  busy  day  as  I've  had."  (Takes 
off  her  jacket  and  hat  and  sits  down.)  "This  morning 
Belle  Jones  and  I  went  shopping..  You  know  it's  bar- 
gain day." 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "And  incidentally,  wash  day." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "And  we  can't  miss  the  opportun- 
ity of  looking  for  bargains." 

Mr.  Gadabout.     "No,  that  would  never  do." 

(Enters  Bridget.) 

Bridget.     "Shall  I  serve  dinner,  mum?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.     "Yes,  Bridget." 

(Exit  Bridget.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Why  on  earth  do  you  want  to  get 
into  a  mob  of  women?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Mob?  Why  of  course  there  was 
a  crowd.  It  wouldn't  be  a  bit  of  fun  hunting  for  bar- 


O4 


gains  if  other  women  were  not  hunting  for  them,  too. 
Belle  and  I  pushed  right  up  to  the  front  every  time 
and  didn't  have  to  wait  more  than  15  or  20  minutes. 
Imagine,  dearie,  $1  kid  gloves  going  for  95  cents. 
Why,  it  would  be  a  sin  not  to  take  advantage  of  it,  and 
then  they  gave  away  the  cutest  leatherette  hand- 
painted  glove  boxes  with  every  dozen  pairs.  Why, 
the  boxes  alone  were  worth  $1." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  That  firm  will  die  of  enlargement  of 
the  heart.  How  many  pairs  of  gloves  did  you  buy?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.    "A  dozen  pairs,  of  course." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (muttering). 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Jim,  I  do  wish  you  would  be 
careful  of  the  language  you  use.  It  really  is  not  gen- 
tlemanly." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (with  disgust).  "That  was  a  great 
bargain  to  give  up,  $11.40  for  a  cute  dollar  glove  box." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Why,  my  dear,  one  always  needs 
gloves — and  then  they  can  be  given  away  for  Christmas 
presents." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Christmas  was  over  two  months 
ago." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Well,  of  course,  but  there  are  oth- 
ers coming,  aren't  there?  You  never  look  out  for  the 
future,  Jim..  Belle  got  two  dozen  pairs.  Then  we 
went  to  the  ribbon  counter.  I  never  saw  such  bar- 
gains in  my  life;  bolt  after  bolt  of  ribbon  going  for  a 
song." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.    "Did  you  and  Belle  give  a  concert?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "What  are  you  talking  about? 
I  bought  ten  bolts  and  Belle  bought  five.  She  didn't 
like  the  color.  Well,  I  didn't  either — a  sort  of  ma- 
genta, but  then  one  can  always  use  ribbon,  you  know." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Oh,  yes,  one  can  always  use  ribbon. 
There's  about  eight  dollars'  worth  of  neckties  for  the 
cat." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Jim,  you  are  so  silly.  Why,  I've 
saved  a  lot  of  money  for  you  today." 

95 


Mr.  Gadabout.  "I  would  like  to  have  had  the  chance 
to  copper  your  trades." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Is  that  a  joke?  Because,  if  it  is, 
it's  very  flat.  Then  we  were  desperately  hungry,  so 
we  started  for  lunch.  We  had  to  go  through  the  mil- 
linery section  and  Belle  wanted  to  try  on  hats." 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Just  for  a  pastime,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "The  swellest  things,  Jim.  I  found 
the  most  stunning  red  hat." 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Oh,  you  were  trying  them  on,  too?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Of  course.  Don't  you  suppose  I 
wanted  to  see  how  I  looked  in  them?  And  the  red  hat 
was  dirt  cheap — but  I  couldn't  buy  it." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Couldn't?  Did  your  money  run 
out,  or  did  you  have  a  sudden  twinge  of  conscience?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "You  see,  it  had  a  red  bird  on  it, 
and  I  joined  the  Audubon  Society  last  week.  A  hor- 
rid women  at  our  club  worked  on  my  sympathies  for 
the  poor  birds..  I  cried  while  she  was  talking,  but 
it  makes  me  furious  now.  The  idea  that  one  can't  have 
a  bird  on  one's  hat.  I'm  going  to  resign  tomorrow." 

Mr.  Gadabout.'  "I  would;  that's  what  birds  were 
made  for,  to  wear  on  hats." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Then  we  went  to  lunch.  I  had 
an  oyster  patty  and  some  fig  ice  cream  and  Belle  had 
some  celery  salad  and  some  peach  souffle." 

Mr.  Gadabout.     "A  what?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.    "A  peach  souffe." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "That  sounds  filling.  I  guess  I'll 
order  some  tomorrow.  Why  didn't  you  get  corn  beef 
and  cabbage?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Horrors!  What  do  you  think  we 
are,  Jim?  A  couple  of  workingmen?  After  lunch 
Belle  wanted  to  go  to  the  Philosophical  League  Rooms 
to  hear  a  lecture  on — Let's  see — I  wrote  it  down  (takes 
paper  from  pocket)  'The  Philosophical  View  of  Egoism 
versus  Altruism." 


»G 


Mr.  Gadabout.  "Now  what  the  dev — .  What  does 
that  mean?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.     "Jim,  why  that's  very  plain." 
Mr.  Gadabout.    "That  is  the  plainest — the  most  com- 
prehensible thing  I  have  ever  heard." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "We  only  stayed  for  a  third  of  the 
lecture.  The  lecturer  was  awfully  smart,  but  she 
looked  like  a  guy — the  way  her  dress  hung  in  the  back. 
Gracious !  Why  is  it  these  smart  women  always  dress 
like  freaks?" 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Give  it  up.  Chronic,  I  suppose." 
Mrs.  Gadabout.  "I  copied  one  thing  she  said,  Jim; 
>  but  I  couldn't  quite  understand  it."  (Takes  paper 
from  her  pocket.  Reads)  :  'The  happiness,  or  that 
which  brings  it,  must  be  greater  to  one  who  derives  it 
from  another's  efforts,  than  it  would  have  been  had  his 
own  efforts  procured  it;  or,  otherwise,  supposing  a 
fund  of  happiness,  or  if  that  which  brings  it,  has  been 
formed  by  contributions  from  each,  then  each  in  ap- 
propriating his  share  must  find  it  larger  than  it  would 
have  been  had  no  such  aggregation  and  dispersion  taken 
place.'  Do  you  see  that,  Jim?" 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Oh!  yes,  indeed,  I  see  that." 
Mrs.  Gadabout.     "Well,  what  does  it  mean?" 
Mr.  Gadabout.    "Mean?    Mean?    Why,  it  means,  er 
— it  means  what  it  says." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Well,  I  can't  see  it — Listen  (starts 
to  read  again)  "The  happiness,  or  that  which  brings 
it—" 

Mr.  Gadabout,  (interrupting  hastily)     "For  heaven's 
sake,  don't  read  that  again — that's  too  easy." 
Mrs.  Gadabout.    "We  didn't  stay  long." 
Mr.   Gadabout.     "I'm  surprised.     I  should  hate  to 
have  missed  any  of  that." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "We  wanted  to  go  to  Mrs.  De- 
Swell's  reception." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Yes,  you  ought  to  have  worked  in 
something  else." 

97 


Mrs.  Gadabout.  "That  woman  makes  me  tired.  She 
goes  to  everything  she's  invited  to  for  about  two  years 
and  then  she  makes  a  great  splurge  and  invites  every 
one  she  has  ever  heard  of  to  a  reception.  Really,  you 
know  a  reception  doesn't  pay  for  a  lot  of  dinners  and 
theater  parties." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  'Oh!  it  doesn't?  Couldn't  you 
women  establish  a  clearing  house  and  even  up 
matters?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "You  are  so  silly  sometimes,  Jim. 
Such  a  crush]  Everybody  was  there.  Mrs.  DeSwell 
had  on  a  new  lace  gown — I'll  wager  it  wasn't  paid  for." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "I  wonder  how  DeSwell  manages 
it?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "I  wanted  to  go  home  and  change 
my  gown,  but  Belle  said  we  didn't  have  time.  That 
pug-nosed  daughter  of  Mrs.  DeSwell's  helped  to  re- 
ceive. She'll  have  a  hard  time  working  that  girl  off 
her  hands.  The  whole  tribe  of  Blakes  were  there." 

Mr.  Gadabout.     "Never  refuse  anything,  do  they?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Never.  Molly  Tompkins  was 
there  in  that  same  pink  crepe.  It's  been  cleaned  three 
times  to  my  certain  knowledge." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Molly  has  nerve  to  appear  in  a 
dress  that's  been  cleaned  three  times.  She  must  be  a 
brave  woman  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  all  those  eyes. 
Ugh!  (shivers). 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "We  had  to  wait  half  an  hour  at 
the  dining  room  door  to  be  served.  I  thought  I'd 
drop.'  ' 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Why,  you  were  not  tired.  I'm  sur- 
prised. '  More  souffle,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "No,  the  idea!  Sandwiches,  coffee, 
cream  and  cake.  On  the  way  home  we  stopped  at 
the  church." 

Mr.  Gadabout   (in  amazement).     "At  the  church?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Yes,  Miss  Maria  Smith  was  con- 
ducting a  mothers'  meeting." 

98 


Mr.  Gadabout.  "Miss  Maria  Smith !  Now  what  the 
deuce  would  Miss  Smith  know  about  a  mothers'  meet- 
ing?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Why,  Jim,  mothers'  meetings  are 
always  conducted  by  old  maids.  The  meetings  are 
very  helpful.  They  make  one  feel  so  responsible  and 
thoughtful." 

Mr.  Gadabout  (sarcastically).  "Oh,  they  must.  The 
old  maids  tell  you  how  to  raise  your  children,  I  sup- 
pose— they've  had  so  much  experience.  I'd  like  to 
go  to  a  fathers'  meeting  conducted  by  an  old  bachelor." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Jim,  I  hate  to  hear  you  speak  so 
flippantly.  Miss  Smith's  talk  made  me  realize  how 
much  responsibility  rests  upon  a  wife  and  mother." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  I  should  imagine  so.  I've  been  home 
half  an  hour  or  so  waiting  for  dinner."  (Looks  at  his 
watch.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (straightening  up  angrily).  "It  is 
not  at  all  becoming  in  a  man  to  be  sarcastic  to  his 
wife,  and  I've  had  such  a  busy  day  trying  to  save 
money  for  you  and  going  to  mothers'  meetings  to  help 
me  in  caring  for  the  children." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "While  Daisy  was  falling  into  the 
tub;  Tommy  making  faces  at  the  neighbors;  the  plas- 
tering dropping  in  the  front  bed  room  and  a  few  other 
cheerful  events  were  transpiring." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  '"Well,  I  can't  stay  at  home  every 
moment  to  look  after  the  children.  You  are  the  most 
selfish,  unreasonable  man  I  ever  saw."  (Begins  to 
cry.) 

Mr.  Gadabout  (jumping  up).  "That's  right — cry. 
Gee  whiz !  I'm  glad  I  came  home.  Guess  I'll  go  back 
to  the  office  and  rest."  (Goes  out  and  slams  the  door.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (sobbing).  "Poor  me;  I  certainly 
have  a  hard  enough  life." 

(Enter  Bridget.) 

Bridget.     "Dinner's  ready,  mum." 

Mrs.  Gadabout   (wiping  her  eyes).     "I  don't  wish 

on 


any,  Bridget.  I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful.  Give  the  chil- 
dren their  dinner." 

Bridget.  "And  you  won't  ate  nothin'?  Shure,  you'll 
starve,  mum,  and  there  is  nice  breaded  vale  chops." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "No,  I  can't  eat  anything  at  all," 
(Bridget  sighs),  "and  I  am  so  fond  of  veal  chops." 

Bridget.    "Not  even  a  very  little  wan,  mum?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.    (Shakes  her  head.) 

Bridget.  (Sighs  deeply  and  starts  to  leave  the 
room.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Bridget,  you  might  bring  me  one 
veal  chop,  for  fear  I  should  grow  faint."  (Sighs.) 

Bridget.  "And  we've  lovely  crame  pertaties  that 
you  love,  mum." 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (sighs.)     "No,  I  couldn't  eat  them." 

(Bridget   starts  to   leave.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.     "Bridget!" 

(Bridget  pauses.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "You  might  bring  me  a  few  cream 
potatoes,  a  very  few,  Bridget." 

Bridget.     "And  we've  apple  pie,  mum." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "No,  no,  Bridget,  I  couldn't  touch 
a  thing  sweet." 

Bridget  (sighing).  "Of  course  not,  I  understand, 
mum.  Hot  rolls,  mum?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Well,  you  might  bring  me  a  roll 
or  two." 

Bridget.    "Yes,  mum.   (Starts  to  leave.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Bridget."  (Bridget  pauses.)  "You 
might  add  a  very  small  piece  of  apple  pie.  I  feel  very 
faint  and  empty."  (Sighs.) 

Bridget.    "Yes,  mum."     (Sighs  and  goes  out.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "A  woman's  life  is  very  hard." 
(Sighs.)  "A  man  does  not  realize  that  a  woman's 
nerves  are  not  as  strong  as  his.  She  can't  endure  as 
much.  Now  Jim  is  so  quick-tempered.  It  wears  upon 
me  terribly." 

100 


(Enter  Bridget  with  a  tray  containing  meal.  She 
places  knife,  fork,  plate,  etc.,  before  her  mistress.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (looking  like  a  marytr.)  "Thank  you, 
Bridget.  I  do  not  suppose  I  can  eat  a  mouthful." 

Bridget.  "Try  to  ate  just  a  bite,  mum,  to  kape  up 
your  strength." 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (sighs).  "You'll  look  after  the  poor 
children,  Bridget?" 

Bridget  (wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her 
apron).  "Yes,  mum,  poor  little  souls.  They  are  fight- 
ing now,  mum,  just  as  friendly,  bless  their  hearts." 

(Bridget   goes   out.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (looking  at  dinner).  "I  feel  very 
faint,  but  the  sight  of  food  nauseates  me  when  my  mind 
is  so  upset.  (Pushes  away  her  plate)  It's  very  bad  to 
go  "without  one's  dinner.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  try  to 
force  something  down.  (Pulls  her  plate  towards  her 
and  begins  to  eat.  Eats  and  sighs.) 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "I  don't  believe  I  can  force  down 
that  pie,  but  I  have  eaten  very  little."  (After  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  begins  to  eat  pie.  A  door  is  heard 
to  shut.  Voice  of  Mr.  Gadabout  is  heard  in  hall  out- 
side) : 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Bridget,  where  is  Mrs.  Gadabout?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout  (hastily  pushes  tray,cups,  saucers, 
plates  etc.,  under  the  table.  Eats  pie  hurriedly  and 
buries  her  face  in  her  handkerchief.) 

(Enter  Mr.  Gadabout.    Stands  at  the  door.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Poor  girl.  She's  all  broken  up; 
I  was  a  beast."  (Goes  toward  the  table.)  "My  dear, 
I  am  awfully  sorry  I  was  so  hasty,  but  don't  feel  so 
cut  up  about  it." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  (Tries  to  swallow  the  remainder  of 
the  pie.  Does  not  answer.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Poor  dear,  she  is  so  filled  up  she 
cannot  speak."  (Goes  to  Mrs.  Gadabout  and  puts  his 
arm  about  her.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "I  am  very  sorry,  dear," 

101 


Mrs.  Gadabout.     (Sobs  audibly.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Won't  you  kiss  and  make  up?" 

Mrs.  Gadabout.     (Does  not  answer.) 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "Come,  don't  be  so  unforgiving, 
dear." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  "Well,  Jim,  it  was  awfully  cruel  in 
you  to  go  away  like  that  and  be  so  cross." 

Mr.  Gadabout.  "I  know  I  was  a  brute,  but  let's  kiss 
and  make  up."  'Pulls  her  toward  him  and  they  kiss.) 
"Will  you  forgive  me?  Come,  let's  have  our  dinner." 

Mr.s  Gadabout.  'Oh!  I  couldn't  eat  a  mouthful, 
but  I'll  go  with  you. 

Mr.  Gadabout.    "Try  to  eat  a  little  something,  dear." 

Mrs.  Gadabout.  Well,  perhaps  I'll  have  a  cup  of 
tea,  because  my  nerves  are  worn  out.  You  see,  Jim,  I 
have  had  such  a  busy  day." 

Curtain. 


102 


"CUPID— TO  WIN." 

It  was  at  the  Bit  and  Spur  Club  on  Derby  day  and 
they  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  great  veranda — watching 
the  races? — Perhaps — but  he,  at  least,  saw  far  more  of 
the  girl  in  blue  at  his  side  than  of  anything  else  around 
him.  She,  however,  with  the  keen  interest  of  a  novice, 
was  enjoying  the  whole  scene — the  toilets  of  the 
women,  the  bustle  and  chatter,  the  glow,  life  and  color 
all  about  her. 

To  the  left  were  the  boxes  in  the  grand-stand,  filled 
with  fair  women  and  attentive  escorts  and  just  below 
the  boxes,  in  the  grassy  enclosure,  masses  of  men  ges- 
ticulated, talked  and  jostled  one  another  in  good-hum- 
ored excitement.  Out  in  the  infield  splendid  equi- 
pages glittered  in  the  sun  and  the  many  colored  gowns 
'and  waving  parasols  of  the  women,  fairly  dazzled  the 
eye,  like  huge  flaunting  bouquets  of  variegated  flowers. 

Now  and  then  a  great  shout  arose  from  grand-stand, 
club-house  and  paddock  as  a  race  was  run  and  won, 
leaving  a  trail  of  joy  and  disappointment  in  its  wake. 
Cheers  arose  as  the  jockeys  made  their  appearance  or 
the  winner  of  each  race  came  proudly  back  to  the  en- 
trance gate.  Swarms  of  men  and  boys  in  a  living 
stream  poured  to  the  starting  point  and  back  across 
the  infield  to  the  wire. 

Conscious  of  the  beauty  of  their  gowns  and  that 
other  women  saw  and  admired,  elegant  dames  and 
dainty  demoiselles  sauntered  back  and  forth  along  the 
club-house  veranda  or  on  the  lawns  in  front,  accom- 
panied by  men,  young  and  old,  in  all  the  well-dressed 
negligee  of  the  race-course,  light  flannal  suits,  silken 
shirts,  soft  felt  or  jaunty  straw  hats,  with  field  glasses 
slung  across  the  shoulders. 

1O3 


Between  the  races,  waiters  rushed  to  and  fro  carry- 
ing iced  drinks  and  the  women  chattered  like  magpies, 
while  over  in  the  grand-stand  messenger  boys  were 
carrying  the  winnings  to  the  fortunate  fair  ones  or  tak- 
ing their  bets  for  the  next  race. 

Two  men  who  passed  the  couple  in  the  corner  of  the 
Club-house  veranda  smiled  and  winked  knowingly  at 
one  another. 

"Hamilton  has  a  severe  case,  Doctor,"  said  one. 

"Looks  like  it,"  was  the  reply.  "Well,  I  admire  his 
taste — pretty  girl — doesn't  live  here,  does  she?" 

"No ;  she  is  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Drace  from  some  little 
town  in  Illinois.  I  thought  Hamilton  was  a  confirmed 
bachelor — though  he  is  only  thirty — but  "when  the 
chaperone  makes  herself  scarce,  things  begin  to  look 
serious,  eh?" 

"Yes — and  Bob  seems  to  be  a  fixture.  I  don't  believe 
he  has  left  her  to  make  a  bet.  She  is  rather  of  the  pru- 
dish, upsophisticated  kind,  not  exactly  Bob's  style,  I 
should  imagine,  but  I  see  I  am  mistaken.  However, 
she  ought  to  improve  under  Amy  Brace's  tutelage." 

Oblivious  to  covert  or  open  glances — aside  or  audible 
remarks,  Bob  Hamilton  sat  opposite  the  girl  in  blue, 
asking  himself  some  very  momentous  questions.  Oc- 
casionally as  the  winner  of  a  race  came  under  the 
wire,  he  took  enough  interest  to  tell  his  companion  the 
name  of  the  lucky  horse,  for  she  on  the  contrary,  was 
always  full  of  excitement  at  the  critical  moment  and 
watched  for  the  winner  with  shining  eyes  as  blue  as 
the  blue  of  the  gown  she  wore. 

The  contrast  between  her  jet  black  hair  and  lashes 
and  those  soft  blue  eyes  was  very  striking — to  Bob  the 
most  charming  combination  he  had  ever  seen. 

There  was  not  a  bit  of  use  to  fight  the  matter — he 
had  been  struggling  against  the  inevitable  for  a  week 
or  more.  In  the  course  of  human  events  he  had  begun 
to  think  of  himself  as  a  confirmed  bachelor.  The  tidy 
income  of  which  he  was  in  possession  was  enough  for 

1O4 


one,  that  is,  to  live  as  Bob  wanted  to  live,  with  all  the 
comforts  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life  (for  Bob  liked 
his  clubs,  his  little  dinners,  his  valet) — and — with  two 
there  would  have  to  be  a  renouncing  of  many  of  these 
good  things.  He  had  told  himself  these  very  plain 
facts  many  times  and  had  settled  into  a  very  comfort- 
able sort  of  existence — but  then  hitherto,  there  had 
been  no  disturbing  element — no  girl  with  blue  eyes 
and  black  hair  and  the  sweetest  voice  in  the  world, 
had  come  across  his  path  to  make  him  wonder  if 
bachelorhood  were  not  a  failure  after  all. 

They  had  been  thrown  much  together,  for  young 
Hamilton,  though  by  no  means  a  saint,  did  not  pose 
(as  many  young  men  of  his  acquaintance  took  a  pride 
in  doing)  as  a  sinner,  but  was  a  man  both  men  and 
women  liked  and  trusted. 

So  Amy  Drace  had  left  her  rather  prudish  young 
cousin  more  and  more  to  Bob's  society.  She  did  not 
like  to  see  the  look  which  came,  unconsciously,  into 
the  young  girl's  face,  when  the  champagne  went  round 
or  the  conversation  was  a  little  more  racy  than  Agnes 
had  been  wont  to  hear,  as  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman 
in  a  small  country  town. 

The  fourth  race  had  been  run  and  the  people  had  set- 
tled back  into  a  sort  of  buzzing  quietude,  discussing  the 
outcome,  sipping  iced  drinks,  or  engaging  in  mild  flirta- 
tions. Agnes  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  a  little  quizzical 
smile  coming  over  her  face. 

"Tell  me  Mr.  Hamilton,  why  I,  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  who  have  never  been  to  a  horse-race  before 
in  my  life,  should  really  enjoy  it?  Is  it  the  degeneracy 
of  the  age?" 

"It  must  be  the  degeneracy  of  the  age,  Miss  Martin," 
he  answered  gallantly.  "It  could  not  be  any  short  com- 
ing of  your  own,  and  we  will  lay  it  to  atmospheric 
influence." 

"That  is  very  kind  of  you,"  she  laughed.  "But  really, 
seriously  I  am  at  loss  to  understand  myself.  Ever  since 

105 


I  have  been  here  to-day  I  have  had  an  intense  desire  to 
speculate  as  to  the  winner  of  each  race.  And  when  I 
think  of  how  horrified  my  dear  father  would  be  at  such 
an  inclination  on  my  part,  I  feel  very  wicked  indeed. 
There  was  a  long  discussion  between  father  and  aunt" 
("my  dear  mother  has  been  dead  several  years,"  said 
she  parenthetically  in  a  lower  tone)  "about  my  coming 
at  all  into  this  great  modern  Babylon  but  the  balance 
tipped  toward  my  desires,  and  I  came." 

Bob  had  a  smooth,  beardless  face  and  a  fresh  com- 
plexion, from  which  the  color  had  gone  somewhat, 
leaving  him  rather  pale,  when  he  spoke,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence. 

"May  there  not  have  been  a  sort  of  fatality  about  it 
all?"  he  asked  in  a  low  tense  voice. 

It  was  coming — no  use  to  fight  it  off. 

She  looked  up  quickly  in  a  surprised  way  and  then 
dropped  her  eyes  when  she  saw  the  look  in  his. 

"Miss  Martin,  Agnes,  you  have  not  the  least  idea  of 
what  it  means  to  me — your  coming  here — my  knowing 
you.  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

It  was  out  at  last  and  after  it,  dead  silence  between 
them. 

She  was  completely  astonished.  She  liked  him  im- 
mensely, but  she  had  not  thought  of  the  possibility 
of  this. 

When  she  replied  it  was  in  a  confused,  broken  way. 

"Why,  you  surely  cannot  mean  that — we  have  known 
one  another  such  a  short  time." 

"I  do  mean  it,  every  word,"  he  answered,  growing 
bolder,  and  then  he  said  a  very  commonplace  thing 
and  what  he  would  have  been  amused  at,  in  a  story. 
"You  are  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me." 

Agnes  was  toying  with  her  official  programme,  nerv- 
ously, the  color  coming  and  going  in  her  face. 

She  saw  as  in  a  dream,  the  words, 
—"Fifth  Race,"— 

Purse  $600.     For  three-year-olds  and  upward.     By 


subscription  of  $10  each,  to  the  winner;  with  $600 
added,  of  which  $75  to  the  second  and  $25  to  the  third 
horse. 

Three-year-olds  to  carry  100  Ibs. ;  four-year-olds,  110 
Ibs.;  five-year-olds  and  upward,  112  Ibs One  Mile 

Then  a  mad  freak  came  over  her  as  she  read.  She 
glanced  over  the  list  of  names,  John  R,  Honey  Bee,  The 
Greek,  Lightfoot,  Bishop,  Brown,  Ironwood,  Bluebird, 
Plexus,  Solomon. 

"Pick  the  winner  of  this  race  and  I  will  be  your  wife," 
she  said,  not  lifting  her  eyes. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Agnes,  do  you  really  mean  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  softly  and  without  even  excus- 
ing himself,  he  rushed  away  to  the  paddock. 

The  jockeys  were  already  mounted,  waiting  at  the 
entrance. 

"Here,  Tom,"  he  cried,  to  a  negro  who  was  general 
utility  boy  about  the  grounds,  "Put  ten  dollars  on 

"  he  hesitated,  his  eye  running  hurriedly  over  the 

list — it  was  an  inspiration — Bluebird.  The  color  of 
her  eyes,  her  gown,  her  charming  hat  with  its  curling 
feathers — "on  Bluebird" — thrusting  the  money  into 
Tom's  hand  and  then  he  did  not  even  wait  for  the 
boy's  return,  but  went  back  to  his  place  at  her  side. 

They  were  off,  when  he  reached  the  veranda  and  he 
said  in  a  low  tone: 

"I  have  chosen  Bluebird." 

She  did  not  answer  but  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood 
looking  out  over  the  track  with  a  curiously  strained 
look  in  her  large  blue  eyes. 

Away  they  flew — Bluebird  third.  They  could  see 
the  red  and  white  stripes  of  her  jockey's  blouse.  To 
the  quarter — to  the  half  and  Bluebird  second — Agnes' 
lips  parted — Bob  was  breathing  heavily.  To  the  three- 
quarter  mark — Bluebird  ahead. 

"She  will  win,  she  will  win,"  she  heard  him  say 
under  his  breath. 

1O7 


On  they  came,  Bluebird  ahead,  Lightfoot  second; 
then  neck  and  neck — and  with  a  sudden  start  forward 
Lightfoot  under  the  wire  by  a  neck — and  the  race  was 
won. 

Agnes  sank  back  into  her  chair.  Bob's  face  was  as 
pale  as  death.  He  turned  and  left  her  abruptly  and 
she  thought  he  was  angry.  How  unwomanly  she 
had  been.  To  answer  so  lightly  the  most  solemn 
question  a  man  could  ask  a  woman — her  acceptance 
of  him  as  her  future  husband  to  depend  upon  the  out- 
come of  a  horse  race  and  his  ability  to  single  out  the 
winner.  She  remembered  the  frivolous  lady  of  Leigh 
Hunt's  poem  who,  watching,  with  King  Francis  and 
his  court — the  lions  fighting  below  them,  threw  her 
glove  amongst  the  savage  beasts  to  prove  her  lover's 
constancy. 

No  wonder,  though  brave  enough  to  rescue  the 
glove  her  lover  threw  it,  "but  not  with  love,  right  in 
the  lady's  face."  Even  the  King  approved  the  lover's 
action. 

"Not  love,"  quoth  he,  "but  vanity,  sets  love  a  task 
like  that." 

And  she  had  sacrificed  her  life's  happiness  and  his, 
for  a  whim,  a  mad  freak. 

Bluebird  had  lost — was  she  sorry?  Yes;  she  knew 
now  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  she  had  found  a  man 
whom  she  could  love  and  trust.  But  stay — her  word 
was  not  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians — un- 
alterable. Their  future  happiness  need  not  depend 
on  the  losing  of  a  race.  But  how  let  him  know? 
Perhaps  he  would  not  want  to  marry  a  girl  of  so  fickle 
a  temperament. 

In  the  grassy  enclosure  below  the  grand-stand,  Bob 
found  Tom  standing  near  the  fence,  his  black  face 
wreathed  in  broad  grins. 

"What  was  the  fool  laughing  at?  Didn't  he  have 
any  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things?" 


"I'm  glad  you  think  this  is  a  laughing  matter,  you 
black  rascal!"  he  said  irritably. 

"I  reckon  you'll  laugh,  too,  Mistah  Hamilton,  when 
you  knows.  At  the  last  minute  I  had  a  tip  and  tho'  1 
knowed  you'd  think  me  mightly  presumin' ;  I  done  put 
yo'  money  on  Lightfoot  an'  yo'  ain't  so  bad  off  after 
all." 

The  sudden  reaction  made  Bob's  head  feel  queer 
and  his  face  was  a  study. 

"Fool's  luck,"  was  all  he  said,  thrusting  the  ten  dol- 
lars into  the  negro's  hand  and  pocketing  his  winnings. 

Then  not  waiting  for  Tom's  thanks,  he  hurried  back 
to  the  veranda.  She  was  sitting  in  the  same  place. 

"I  wonder  what  you  must  think  of  me,"  she  said 
when  he  pulled  his  chair  toward  her.  "I  do  not  know 
why  I  said  what  I  did.  It  was  most  unwomanly." 
She  paused  and  he  saw  that  there  was  a  suspicious 
moisture  around  the  long  lashes. 

"Then  it  does  not  matter  about  the  race,"  he  said 
eagerly,  "you  will  be  my  wife?" 

"Yes,"  was  her  scarcely  audible  answer. 

There  was  a  little  exultant  ring  in  his  voice  as  he 
said,  "But  my  money  went  on  Lightfoot,  dearest, 
and  I  am  a  winner  after  all." 


1O9 


LUCINDY  JONES  AND  THE  DIRECTRY 
GOWN. 

I  don't  know,  Maria  Mosely,  as  I'll  git  the  taint 
of  that  visit  to  Myrtle  Busby  off  me  in  a  good  many 
days.  May  be  it  ain't  like  the  corner  of  State  and 
Madison,  this  here  Poky  Corners  of  our'n,  and  maybe 
it  do  seem  a  bit  slow  to  city  folks,  but  it's  quick  enough 
fur  me,  an'  it  ain't  chuck  full  o'  sin  an'  queerness  to 
the  square  inch  neither.  You  know  me  an'  Myrtle  used 
to  be  sich  chums  until  one  of  them  city  drummers 
come  along  an'  was  ketched  by  Myrtle's  pretty  face. 
Told  her  she  warn't  a  rose  to  blush  unseen  (sorter 
pretty  sentiment,  yet  ruther  mushy,  too),  an'  so  he 
transplanted  her  to  Chicago.  Well  after  she  was  mar- 
ried, me  an'  Myrtle  writ  fur  awhile,  but  then  we 
kinder  lost  sight  of  one  another  fur  a  number  of  years, 
until  one  day  Myrtle  comes  rollin'  up  in  one  of  them 
autymobiles,  kickin'  up  dust  like  fury,  an'  she  hunts 
me  up  an'  makes  me  promise  to  make  her  a  visit. 

Myrtle  lives  in  one  of  them  swell  flat  bildins  with 
elevators  an'  Lord  knows  what  not — nice  enough  an' 
convenient  in  some  things,  but  too  fur  from  the 
ground — up  seven  stories.  I  was  giddy  all  the  time 
I  was  there. 

Myrtle's  husband  has  made  considerable  money,  I 
guess,  fur  they  spend  it,  free  as  water,  an'  we  went 
rushin'  'round  so,  I  didn't  git  a  good  full  breath  'till  I 
come  home. 

Myrtle  an'  her  husband  has  two  or  three  sets  of 
friends.  Some  of  'em  rich  an'  fashnerble,  an'  others 
poor  as  Job's  turkey,  I  should  say,  for  the  women  wore 
plain  clothes,  an'  the  men  was  too  poor  to  git  their 
hair  cut — leastwise  that's  what  I  thought — but  Myrtle 

no 


said  they  was  musicians,  an'  when  I  asked  her  if 
music  made  the  hair  grow  she  laffed,  fit  to  kill.  Bo- 
hemians, Myrtle  said  they  was,  but  I  couldn't  account 
no  way,  Maria,  fur  Myrtle's  mixin'  up  with  sich  for- 
eign truck.  Here,  hand  me  them  stockings  to  darn, 
Maria,  an'  you  git  some  other  sewin'.  I  might  as 
well  be  workin'  while  I  talk.  I've  been  idlin'  so  long 
that  I'm  glad  to  git  at  useful  work. 

How  Myrtle  stands  the  kind  of  life  she  leads  is 
more'n  I  kin  make  out.  Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  never 
could  abide  furriners  an'  how  Myrtle  mixed  up  with 
them  Bohemians  was  a  puzzle  to  me.  Some  of  'em 
could  play  pretty — though  I'd  ruther  hear  Jim  Daw- 
son's  old  fiddle  tunin'  up  "Silver  Threads  Among  the 
Gold,"  or  Jennie  Green  a  playin'  "Rock  of  Ages,"  or 
"Shall  We  Gather  at  the  River,"  than  any  of  them 
new  fangled  tunes. 

An'  as  fur  singin',  Millie  Rose  kin  beat  the  woman 
all  holler  that  sung  at  Myrtle's  church.  Why,  would 
you  believe  me,  Maria  Mosely,  that  woman  screeched 
so  loud,  in  the  House  of  God,  too,  that  I  believe  'pon 
my  soul  you  could  a  heard  her  clear  to  Poky  Corners. 
'Twas  sacriligeous  to  me,  but  then  when  preachers 
takes  to  writin'  plays,  the  world's  gittin'  sacrilegeous 
enough  and  the  devil's  runnin'  rampant. 

Dear  me  suz,  Maria  Mosely,  I  reely  don't  know  what 
to  think  of  these  times  we're  livin'  in.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it — the  preacher  of  Myrtle's  church  has  writ  a 
play  and  they  all  seems  to  feel  kinder  proud  of  it. 

Wouldn't  Pastor  Peters  go  a  flyin'  if  he  writ  about 
any  of  them  gals  that  runs  around  half  dressed  be- 
fore the  public. 

Myrtle  took  me  to  a  singin'  show,  light  opry  she 
called  it,  one  night,  an'  the  women  was  showin'  their 
legs  just  scandulus,  and  them  that  warn't  uncovered 
'round  the  legs  was  bare  'round  the  neck,  an'  I  was 
that  ashamed  I  didn't  know  where  to  look.  Why 
Maria,  I  spent  half  the  night  in  prayer,  a  prayin'  to 


be  forgiven  fur  witnessin'  sech  a  show.  Then  after 
the  show  we  went  to  a  restyrant  where  there  was 
singin'  an'  drinkin' — would  you  believe  it,  Maria,  wom- 
en sittin'  up  as  bold  as  men  a  drinkin.'  'Twas  kinder 
pretty  in  there,  all  gold  an'  glitter  an'  music,  an* 
women  fixed  up  to  beat  the  band,  but  it  seemed  like 
it  might  be  part  of  the  temptin's  of  the  evil  one,  Maria. 

Another  time  Myrtle  an'  her  husband  took  me  to  a 
Bohemian  restyrant  where  them  long  haired  critters 
hung  out,  eatin'  macoroni  in  long  strings,  kinder  dis- 
gustin'  like,  an  red  hots,  they  called  'em,  an'  drinkin' 
out  of  big  mugs. 

Myrtle  said  she  wanted  me  to  see  life.  Well,  I 
didn't  say  nothin'  to  Myrtle,  Maria,  bein'  her  guest, 
but  I  thought  ef  this  is  life — give  me  death  an'  Poky 
Corners. 

It's  amusin'  to  see  the  inconsistencies  of  folks. 
Here  was  Myrtle  always  talkin'  about  germs  an'  mi- 
crobes as  she  called  'em,  havin'  everything — let's  see 
what  in  tarnation  did  she  call  it?  Oh,  yes,  anti-sep- 
tical  or  skeptical,  or  sunthin — filterin'  the  water  an' 
fear'd  of  everything  for  the  children  (for  she  had  two 
pretty  children,  though  I  must  say  they  was  kept  out 
of  sight  in  the  nursery  most  of  the  time).  As  I  said  be- 
fore, here  was  Myrtle  afeared  of  everything  an'  she  run- 
nin'  'round  to  all  them  places  where  germs  must  a  been 
thicker'n  hops.  But  I  didn't  tell  you,  Maria  Mosely, 
'bout  the  Directry  gowns.  Myrtle  says  to  me,  says  she, 
I  think  I'll  have  a  new  Directry  gown.  Now,  Maria 
Mosely,  I  may  be  from  Poky  Corners,  but  I  ain't  actin' 
like  I  never  seen  nothin',  so  I  pertended  not  to  appear 
curious,  though  I  didn't  know  what  in  tarnation  she 
meant  by  a  Directry  gown.  I  thought  maybe  it  had 
sunthin'  to  do  with  the  telephone,  so  I  hunted  in  the 
directry  for  pictures,  when  Myrtle  warn't  lookin',  but  I 
couldn't  find  nothin',  but  one  or  two  little  pictures  of 
men  in  the  back  of  the  book. 

There's    some    new    Directry    gowns    in    the    shop 

112 


winders,  says  Myrtle,  let's  go  an'  look  at  them.  Now, 
Maria  Mosely,  I  ain't  tellin'  you  no  falsehood,  but 
them  gowns  was  the  most  indecent  lookin'  dresses 
I  ever  seen,  all  long  an'  tight,  an'  one  of  'em,  you'll 
never  believe  me,  an'  I  wouldn't  if  I  hadn't  seen  it 

with  my  own  eyes,  was  split  up  the  side,  an'  the 

lean  down  while  I  say  it  low,  the  garter  was  a  showin'. 
Of  course  the  dress  was  on  a  wax  figger,  but  there 
was  men,  women,  an'  children,  all  lookin,  as  uncon- 
cerned as  if  garters  was  wore  outside  the  clothes  instid 
of  hid  from  view.  Myrtle  Busby,  says  I,  fergittin' 
her  married  name  in  the  excitement,  Myrtle  Busby — 
you  ain't  never  goin'  to  wear  sich  clothes  as  that! 
Not  quite,  says  Myrtle,  laffin',  but  I'm  goin'  to  have 
a  Directry  gown.  An'  she  did,  Maria  Mosely,  short 
in  the  waist,  an'  tight  in  the  skirt,  enough  to  make  you 
blush  to  see  it. 

Folks  loses  all  sense  of  modesty  in  town,  I  do  be- 
lieve, Maria.  I  guess  it's  in  the  air.  Well,  what 
with  clingin'  to  a  policeman  to  git  from  one  side  of 
the  street  to  the  other,  with  runnin'  like  mad  from 
tootin'  autymobiles,  an'  hangin,  on  a  strap,  jammed  up 
like  a  lot  of  rats  in  a  trap,  in  the  street  cars,  city  life 
ain't  nothin'  but  a  nerve-rackin'  rush  an'  tare  from 
mornin'  'till  night.  I  tell  you,  Maria  Mosely,  when 
I  got  back  to  my  rocker  in  the  sittin'  room,  with  its 
nice  white  crochet  tidy,  an'  seen  my  cat  a  lyin'  in  the 
sunshine  an'  heard  my  bird  singin'  in  the  cage  by  the 
windy,  where  I  could  look  out  on  my  peaceful  little 
garden  an'  the  big  oak  tree  that  my  grandfather  set 
there  with  his  own  hands,  I  pretty  nigh  sung  out  loud 
fur  joy,  I  was  that  glad  to  git  back.  An'  I  spread  my 
skirts  wide  out  on  the  cheer  to  make  me  fergit  that 
awful  Directry  gown.  Myrtle  may  have  her  tight 
clothes  an'  Chicago,  but  give  me  wide  skirts  an'  Poky 
Corners  for  the  rest  of  my  nateral  days. 


113 


"NOT  WITHOUT  HONOR." 

Oh  great  expanse  of  glorious  sea 
Stretched  out  against  the  sky — 

To  tell  of  all  thy  wondrous  charms 
I  fear  no  tongue  can  try. 

When  sapphire  lake  meets  sapphire  sky, 

All  exquisite  the  hue. 
Spread  by  the  brush  from  Master  hand, 
These  tints  of  Heaven's  own  blue. 

More  glorious  still  art  Thou  in  storm, 
When  waves  rush — beating  high 

With  fury  'gainst  the  walled  defense, 
Then  lift,  foam-white,  toward  sky 

To  meet  the  wind  in  duel  strange. 

With  roar  and  angry  wail 
And  taunting  cries,  Thou  battiest  well 

The  fierce  and  furious  gale. 

All  locked  with  ice,  all  cold  and  gray, 
Or  spread  'neath  summer's  sun 

With  lines  of  gold;  or  silver-tipped, 
Moon-rayed  ,when  day  is  done, 

A  thing  of  beauty  art  Thou,  aye, 

And  ever  art  a  joy. 
To  see  Thee  in  Thy  various  moods 

Is  bliss  without  alloy. 


114 


But  why  sing  praises  of  this  lake? 

Good  friend,  too  poor  am  I 
To  travel  far  to  other  lands, 

And  so  with  weary  sigh 

I  dream  of  what  the  great  world  holds, 

To  view  it  I  ne'er  can, 
Oh  poor  blind  eyes  look,  look  your  fill 

'Tis  old  Lake  Michigan. 


115 


"THE  SOUL  OF  THE  RICH  MAN." 
A  Morality  Play. 

Luke  XII;  16-20. 

The  Rich  Man 

His  Soul 

Flattery  "] 

False  Pride      (•  His  Friends 

Gluttony          j 

The  Angel  of  Death 

A  Beggar 

The  Poor  Widow 

The  Rich  Man  is  seated  at  a  table  (laden  with  wine, 
fruits,  etc.,)  with  his  three  friends,  Flattery,  False 
Pride  and  Gluttony. 

The  Rich  Man:  "Come  quaff  of  the  wine  and  par- 
take of  the  repast,  my  friends.  Let  us  eat,  drink  and 
be  merry.  'Tis  for  this  we  live." 

Flattery:  "Aye!  Thou  hast  truly  learned  the  art 
of  living.  Hath  any  other  such  vineyards,  such  flocks 
and  such  herds?" 

False  Pride:  "Aye  and  such  coffers  full  to  over- 
flowing." 

Gluttony:  "Pray  forget  not  the  wines  and  rich 
viands." 

(Enter  the  Beggar.) 

The  Beggar:  "Give  me  I  pray  thee  of  thine  abun- 
dance." 

The  Rich  Man :  "Away  with  thee  intruder.  I  have 
naught  for  such  as  thou." 

The  Beggar:  "Give  but  the  crumbs  that  fall  from 
thy  table—" 

The  Rich  Man:  "Nay  not  so— wert  thou  not  shift- 
lie 


less  thou  wouldst  have  bread  of  thine  own — Go  to 
the  ant  thou  sluggard — learn  of  her  and  be  wise — " 

Flattery:  "Or  rather  learn  of  our  host  who  hath 
by  thrift  and  brain  accumulated  his  vast  wealth." 

Gluttony:  "I  pray  thee  forget  not  the  wines  and 
rare  viands  which  his  wealth  enables  him  to  purchase." 

The  Beggar:     "Only  the  crumbs,  good  sir." 

The  Rich  Man:  "Begone  I  say  or  I  will  set  the 
dogs  upon  thee — not  a  crumb !" 

False  Pride :  "Right  thou  art  my  friend  for  by  giv- 
ing to  the  poor  one  breeds  poverty." 

(Enter  the  Poor  Widow). 

The  Poor  Widow:  "I  beseech  thee,  good  sir,  turn 
me  not  out  of  mine  abode." 

The  Rich  Man:  "Hast  thou  paid  to  the  last  far- 
thing what  thou  owest?" 

The  Widow:  "Alas  sir  I  cannot  pay  thee — I  have 
not  a  farthing." 

The  Rich  Man:  "Then  begone.  Importune  me  no 
more.  My  steward  will  give  thee  thy  just  deserts." 

(Exit  the  Widow,  weeping). 

The  Rich  Man:  "Come  let  us  drink — we've  had 
enough  of  beggars.  See  how  the  wine  sparkles.  'Tis 
a  wit-sharpener — a  tongue  loosener.  All  men  are  at 
their  best  when  the  wine  flows  free." 

Flattery:  "Here's  to  our  generous  host  whose  purse 
strings  are  always  open  to  the  friends  of  his  choice." 

(They  drink). 

The  Rich  Man :  "Drink  to  my  success  for  tomorrow 
I  pull  down  my  barns  to  build  greater,  for  I  have  not 
place  to  bestow  all  my  fruits  and  my  goods." 

(They  drink). 

The  Rich  Man :  "  'Twas  but  yesternight  that  I  said 
to  my  soul — "Soul,  thou  hast  much  goods  laid  up  for 
many  years.  Take  thine  ease,  eat,  drink  and  be 
merry." 

(Enter  The  Angel  of  Death). 

117 


Angel:  "Thou  fool,  this  night  shall  thy  soul  be  re- 
quired of  thee." 

(The  Rich  Man  drops  his  glass). 

(Flattery,  Gluttony  and  False  Pride  turn  around). 

Flattery:     "What  seest  thou?" 

The  Rich  Man:  "Yonder  shape — tell  me  who  and 
what  it  is?" 

Flattery:  "We  see  no  shape — 'Tis  a  phantasy  of 
the  brain.  Thou  has  drunken  thy  fill.  'Twere  wise 
to  drink  no  more  tonight." 

The  Rich  Man:  "I  tell  thee  'tis  a  real  thing."  (He 
turns — the  Angel  has  disappeared).  "Nay  not  so — 
'tis  gone." 

(Flattery,  Gluttony  and  False  Pride  nod  at  one 
another) . 

False  Pride:  "We  will  take  our  departure.  Per- 
chance in  the  morning  thou  wilt  be  thyself  again." 

(All) — "Goodnight,  Goodnight." 

(Exit  Flattery,  Gluttony  and  False  Pride). 

(The  Rich  Man  sinks  back  into  his  chair). 

(The  Angel  of  Death  reappears). 

The  Angel:     "Thou  fool." 

The  Rich  Man:  "The  shape  again — speak — who 
art  thou  and  what  desirest  thou  of  me?" 

The  Angel :  "This  night  shall  thy  soul  be  required 
of  thee." 

The  Rich  Man:  "My  soul?  They  say  I  have  no 
soul." 

The  Angel :  "Didst  thou  not  converse  with  thy  soul 
but  yestereve?  'Soul,  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,'  thou 
saidst." 

The  Rich  Man:    "I  did  but  jest.     I  have  no  soul." 

The  Angel:  "Shall  I  call  forth  thy  soul  into  tang- 
ible shape?  Soul  of  the  Rich  Man  come  forth." 

(A  horrible,  misshapen,  distorted  creature  enters). 

The  Angel :    "This  is  thy  soul." 

The  Rich  Man:  (With  a  cry  of  horror),  "Not  my 
soul — nay,  not  so.  That  vile,  abortive,  loathsome  thing. 
Thou  dost  but  try  me." 

us 


The  Soul :  "I  am  thy  soul  distorted  by  thine  avarice 
and  greed,  thy  love  of  gain — by  the  cries  and  curses  of 
the  oppressed  who  have  felt  thy  heavy  hand.  Once  I 
was  fair  and  pure  and  shapely,  ready  to  be  molded  into 
a  thing  most  beatuiful.  I  am  as  I  am  because  thou 
hast  made  me  so." 

The  Rich  Man :  "Out  of  my  sight.  That  thou  wilt 
be  taken  from  me  is  my  prayer." 

The  Angel:  "When  thy  soul  leaves  thee  then  wilt 
thou  die." 

The  Rich  Man:  "And  leave  my  goods,  my  store 
houses,  my  coffers?  Nay,  nay,  I  must  not.  'Twas 
for  this  I  worked — 'tis  for  this  I  live.  Many  years 
have  I  before  me  to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  my  labors. 
I  tell  thee  I  will  not  die.  Tell  me,  who  art  thou?" 

The  Angel :  "I  am  the  Angel  of  Death — and  I  have 
come  for  thy  soul." 

The  Rich  Man:  "Oh  give  me  time — a  month — a 
week — a  day — an  hour  and  I  will  give  back  to  the 
oppressed  that  which  I  have  taken  from  them.  I  will 
protect  the  widowed  and  the  orphaned  and  the  father- 
less ones.  Many  shall  arise  and  call  me  blessed." 

The  Angel:  "Not  so — too  late — too  late.  'For 
I  was  hungry  and  ye  gave  me  not  meat/  I  was  thirsty 
and  ye  gave  me  no  drink.  I  was  a  stranger  and  ye 
took  me  not  in.  Naked  and  ye  clothed  me  not.'  So 
saith  the  Great  One." 

The  Rich  Man :  "I  ne'er  saw  thee  before  and  I  ne'er 
saw  the  Great  One.  How  therefore  could  I  neglect  or 
ill-treat  Him?" 

The  Angel:  "Verily  I  say  unto  you.  Inasmuch  as 
ye  did  it  not  unto  one  of  the  least  ye  did  it  not  to  me." 
Soul  of  the  rich  man  follow  me." 

(Slowly  the  Angel  passes  out  and  the  misshapen 
soul  follows). 

(With  a  wild  cry  the  Rich  Man  falls  forward  and 
his  hour  has  come). 


MAGGIE  MCCARTY  AND  THE  SERVANT  GIRL 

PROBLEM. 

Phwat  wud  ye  be  thinkin',  Biddy  Gilhooly,  the 
papers  do  be  sayin'  aboot  the  servant  girl  problem? 

Shure  I'm  sick  to  the  heart  wid  hearin'  of  thot 
same.  An'  phwat  is  a  problem?  Shure  I  thot  'twas 
a  sum  in  aritmetick,  fur,  I  heard  Nellie  askin'  of  her 
fayther  only  last  avenin'  to  hilp  do  her  problems  and 
says  I  to  mesilf,  now  phwat  the  divil  is  the  relation 
bechune  me  and  a  column  of  figgers?  And  bedad, 
Biddy  Gilhooly,  'twas  divil  of  an  answer  could  I  give. 
Hiven  knows  we  has  to  wurruk  hard  enough  widdout 
bein'  turned  over  an'  over  an'  discoosed  an'  discoosed 
in  the  papers  an'  not  only  the  papers,  but  thim  wim- 
men's  clubs  an'  the  loike. 

I  never  goes  by  the  dure  whin  the  missus  has  call- 
ers, but  I'd  be  willin'  to  bet  me  wake's  wages  thot 
some  of  thim  is  shakin'  their  head  an'  callin'  of  us 
(thots  you  an'  me  an'  the  rist  of  us  thots  condesindin' 
to  be  in  sarvice),  problems,  bad  cess  to  thim. 

I  will  admit,  Biddy  Gilhooly,  thot  whin  I  first 
landed  'twas  little  I  knew  of  the  ways  of  Ameriky,  an' 
I  suppose  I  was  a  bit  tryin'  an'  a  bit  of  a  granehorn. 

The  first  woman  thot  I  wurruked  for  was  wan  of 
thim  strainers  thot  was  tryin'  to  put  on  airs  wid  nothin' 
to  back  her  up.  Says  she  to  me,  "Maggie,"  says  she, 
"here's  a  cap"  (handin'  me  a  white  cotton  bow,  an'  a 
white  aprun),  "an'  whiniver  the  bell  rings  you  put 
these  things  on  an'  go  to  the  dure."  See  the  cuteness 
of  her,  Biddy  Gilhooly,  tryin'  to  make  me  look  loike  a 
second  girl,  as  though  she  kept  two. 

Well,  I  was  washin'  of  a  Monday  an'  whin  the  bell 
rings  in  the  afternoon  (the  washin'  bein'  so  big,  wid 

120 


six  childer,  thot  I  was  at  it  all  day),  I  pins  on  me 
cap  an'  puts  on  the  apron  the  best  I  could,  but  bein'  in 
a  hurry,  I  forgot  the  siled  gingham  apron  below,  an' 
I  wint  to  the  dure.  Two  ladies  was  standin'  on  the 
front  porch. 

"Is  Mrs.  Jinkins  in,"  says  they. 

"She  is,"  says  I,  "in  wid  yees,"  an'  I  held  the  dure 
open.  They  looked  at  wan  another,  but  they  comes  in. 

"Will  you  take  our  keards?"  says  they  handin'  me  a 
couple  of  white  papers. 

"Shure  I  don't  loike  to  be  refusin'  you,"  says  I,  "but 
the  missus  don't  approve  of  keards — I  heard  her  say 
so  to  the  byes  last  night." 

"These  is  not  playin'  keards,"  says  wan  of  thim, 
kind  of  stiff  like,  "they  bes  callin'  keards  wid  our 
names  on." 

"Will  you  take  thim  to  her,"  says  the  other  wan. 

"I  haven't  toime,"  says  I,  "but  I'll  call  her  an'  till  her 
you'll  be  wantin'  to  see  her."  Wid  thot  I  calls  out, 
"Missus,  here's  two  frinds  come  to  call  on  you,"  an' 
thin  I  goes  back  to  my  wurruk. 

'Twas  aboot  twinty  minutes  later  thot  the  missus 
comes  stalkin'  into  me  laundry.  Glory  be!  She  had 
red  hair  any  time,  but  I'll  bet,  Biddy  me  darlint,  you 
could  have  lit  matches  at  the  head  of  her  wid  aise, 
an'  thin  she  flew  at  me  like  a  hin  wid  its  head  off — me 
a  poor  granehorn,  niver  havin'  wurruked  before.  It 
sames  'twas  two  ladies,  who  was  very  big  bugs,  an' 
she  was  anxious  to  git  in  wid  'em,  though  thot  she 
didn't  tell  me,  but  I  heard  it  from  the  milk  man  whin 
I  wuz  tellin'  him  about  me  story. 

The  nixt  mornin'  we  had  coffee  fur  brikfast  an'  she 
says  to  me,  says  she,  "Maggie,"  says  she,  "here's  the 
pot  fur  the  coffee,"  handin'  me  a  bit  of  a  silver  lookin' 
thing.  Well  I  did  jist  as  I  was  told,  made  the  coffee 
in  it,  an'  wud  ye  believe  me,  Biddy  Gilhooly,  if  the 
thing  didn't  go  miltin'  down  wan  side  'till  it  looked 
loike  it  was  full  of  whisky  instid  of  coffee. 

121 


"Oh  mum,  come  quick,"  says  I,  "the  coffee  pot  ye 
give  me  is  no  good — no  good  at  all  mum,"  says  I,  an* 
she  shrieked  an'  cried  out  enough  to  raise  the  roof, 
"Oh  you  careless,  wretched  girl,  you've  ruined  my 
lovely  solid  silver  coffee  pot — any  fool  ought  to  know 
better." 

"Yes,  any  fool  ought  to,"  says  I,  "but  not  bein'  a 
fool,"  says  I,  me  dander  bein'  up,  "I  don't,  an*  more- 
over, I  gives  you  notice." 

She  was  thot  exciterble  an'  tryin',  Biddy,  thot  I 
couldn't  have  stayed  another  wake.  Well  I  got  along 
fairly  well  in  me  nixt  place  fur  a  couple  of  wakes  whin, 
wan  day  the  missus  sint  home  some  round,  grane 
things,  an'  she  bein'  late  fur  dinner,  bein'  a  great  gad- 
a-boot,  I  had  to  prepare  the  grane  things  as  best  I 
could,  niver  havin'  laid  eyes  on  the  loike  of  thim 
before. 

She  was  wan  of  thim  kind,  the  missus,  thot  laves 
everything  to  a  girl,  runnin'  about  all  day  loike  mad, 
to  keard  parties  and  tays,  or  shoppin',  and  gallivantin', 
so  of  coorse  she  wasn't  there  to  explain,  so  I  raisons  I 
wud  cook  the  things  loike  the  squash  I  had  a  day 
or  two  before,  an'  the  poomkin  I  fixed  sometime  befoor 
thot.  Well,  whin  herself  comes  home,  she  brings 
company,  an'  says,  "Dearie,"  thot's  what  she  calls  the 
tabby  cat  that  was  wid  her,  though  she  was  thot 
homely  she  would  stop  a  clock.  "Dearie,  we'll  have 
a  trate,  I've  some  lovely  new  canteloops,"  says  she, 
"the  first  of  the  saison."  "An'  when  I  brings  thim  in 
cooked  an'  mashed,  she  wint  about  eight  feet  into  the 
air,  she  was  thot  mad.  She  couldn't  same  to  recover, 
Biddy  Gilhooly,  an'  even  the  nixt  day,  she  was  sayin' 
"Canteloops  at  twinty-five  cints  apace,  an'  you  cooked 
three  of  'em."  You'd  think  thot  sivinty-five  cints  was 
a  fortin'. 

'Twas  not  long  I  was  in  thot  place  wid  all  the  fault 
findin'  an'  so  I  tried  siviral  places  in  succession,  wid 
childer,  widdout  childer,  in  flats  an'  in  houses  until 

122 


me  patience  was  most  wore  out.  At  last  I  got  a  foine 
place  along  of  a  rich  family  where  they  kapes  two  girls 
an'  a  laundress,  an'  a  mon  to  do  the  steps  an'  windys. 
'Twas  fair  sailin'  an'  a  good  breeze  we  had  (one  of 
me  uncles  was  a  sailor,  so  sometimes  'tis  in  terms  loike 
thot  I  talks),  until  wan  day  the  missus  an'  her  old 
mon  (he  really  was  her  old  mon,  bein'  much  older 
than  her),  wint  away  fur  a  couple  of  wakes  or  so. 

Well,  Annie  Riordan,  thot  was  the  cook,  me  doin' 
second  wurruk  thin,  Annie  Riordan,  as  I  says  befoor, 
she  says  to  me,  "Maggie  McCarthy,  let's  give  a  party," 
not  manin'  to  be  rhymin'  nayther.  "Where'll  we  give 
it,"  says  I.  "Here,"  says  she,  "in  this  hoose."  Well, 
the  more  I  thought  of  the  party  the  more  I  was  stuck 
on  the  idee,  so  bechune  us  we  invited  a  crowd  and  had 
the  toime  of  our  lives. 

From  garret  to  cellar  we  lighted  the  house,  and  bor- 
ryin'  some  of  the  missus'  clothes,  we  was  decked  out 
in  foine  shape.  We  had  a  fiddler  and  we  danced  in 
the  dining  room,  an'  there  was  things  to  ate,  an'  things 
to  drink,  an'  'twas  marnin'  before  the  party  broke  up. 
Well,  we  fixed  up  the  house  in  foine  shape  an'  niver 
would  the  missus  have  knowed  (the  polaceman  on  the 
bate  wouldn't  tell  her  fur  he  was  there  enjyin'  the 
party  to  the  full,  an'  'twas  nearly  full  he  was  too),  if 
wan  of  thim  snoopin'  neighbors  hadn't  told,  so  we  was 
all  dismissed  in  quick  shape,  I  tell  ye.  Two  bad  we 
couldn't  have  a  bit  of  a  frolic  now  an'  thin. 

No  I  tell  ye,  Biddy  Gilhooly,  wid  all  the  things 
a  body  puts  up  wid,  the  two-by-four  bedrooms,  the 
rude,  impident  childer,  an'  the  bossy  wimmen,  'taint 
the  servant  girl,  as  they  calls  us,  thot's  the  problem, 
it's  the  hull  blame  family,  be  dad,  an'  'tis  thot  same 
that's  the  blissed  truth  I'm  tellin'  you  this  day. 


123 


"THE  CALL  OF  THE  LORD." 

The  peach  orchards  were  all  aglow  with  a  pink  glory, 
and  the  blossoms  scented  the  balmy  spring  air. 

From  out  of  the  brown  sandy  soil,  the  fruit  trees 
rose  like  huge  bouquets,  making  the  landscape  a  con- 
tinuous delight  to  the  eye. 

Lillian  Reed  sat  rocking  upon  the  veranda  of  her 
little  cottage  with  her  youngest  baby  in  her  arms, 
for  the  day  was  mild  and  warm  with  a  hinting  of  a 
summer  near  at  hand. 

Two  other  babies  tumbled  on  the  ground  near  by, 
rolling  over  one  another  like  puppies  at  play. 

But  "care  and  sorrow  and  childbirth  pain 
Had  left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain," 

and  to  the  young  mother,  rocking  mechanically  on  the 
veranda,  the  glory  of  the  day  came  not.  She  was 
tired  out.  Life  seemed  but  a  weary  round  of  work — 
of  dishwashing,  cooking,  nursing,  mending,  darning — 
with  scarcely  a  moment  to  read,  even  the  morning 
paper.  What  of  wars,  and  rumors  of  wars — of  mighty 
events  and  great  catastrophes?  Her  little  -world  was 
bounded  within  four  narrow  walls  with  an  occasional 
holiday,  when  the  three  babies  must  be  dragged  about 
on  a  sightseeing  tour,  and  the  outing  proved  harder 
than  a  day  at  home. 

Not  that  Lillian  did  not  love  her  babies,  nor  the  kind 
husband  who  was  as  hard  working  as  was  she.  But 
the  little  folks,  like  the  little  foxes  that  spoil  the  vines, 
wore  upon  the  nerves  with  their  constant  little  wants, 
and  Jim  was  so  stolid,  so  good-natured,  so  full  of  love 
•  for  his  wife  and  babies  that  he  did  not  notice  that 


124 


Lillian  was  becoming  more  irritable  as  the  days  wore 
on.  Jim's  one  ambition  had  been  to  buy  the  tiny  cot- 
tage in  which  they  lived,  and  that  accomplished  and 
presented  to  this  wife,  he  had  attained  his  ideal.  With 
a  wife  and  three  healthy  babies  and  a  home  of  his 
own  what  more  could  a  man  desire? 

Every  night  he  came  home,  read  his  paper,  played 
with  the  babies  and  went  to  bed  early,  ready  for  a  six 
o'clock  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  his  cup  of  hap- 
piness seemed  full,  without  any  of  the  dreary  mo- 
notony that  had  settled  upon  Lillian  as  a  pall. 

How  different  her  girlhood  had  been!  Lillian  sat 
thinking  of  i*.  today. 

True  she  had  worked  in  a  small  store  in  St.  Joe,  but 
the  work  was  not  hard,  and  the  hours  were  short, 
and  nearly  every  afternoon  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  go  down  to  the  wharf  and  watch  the  big  boats 
come  in  from  Chicago  with  their  loads  of  resorters 
who  were  running  away  from  the  smoke  and  dust  of 
the  great  city.  Sometimes  she  sat  watching  the  men 
loading  fruit  packages  upon  the  returning  boats — or 
with  Jim  went  down  to  the  resorts  along  the  beach 
and  indulged  in  all  the  pleasures  of  the  merry-go- 
round,  or  went  into  the  lake  for  a  refreshing  plunge. 
And  then  on  Sunday  there  was  the  park  along  the 
lake  front,  black  with  people  who  had  come  from  the 
western  metropolis  for  a  day's  outing,  where  one 
could  hear  the  band  and  see  the  gay  crowds.  On  Sun- 
day, too,  there  were  trips  up  the  winding  St.  Joe, 
which  has  a  picturesque  beauty  all  its  own.  Oh,  life 
then  seemed  all  full  of  gayety  and  go  in  those  other 
days! 

Then  there  had  been  one  memorable  day,  a  holiday, 
when  she  and  Jim  had  gone  to  Chicago  for  a  sight 
seeing  trip,  and  had  come  back  on  the  late  boat  in  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  What  mattered  the  crowds  and 
the  noise  and  confusion?  It  represented  life  to  Lillian 
as  the  gayety  of  the  boulevards  satisfies  the  Parisian. 

125 


They  had  found  a  secluded  spot  and  the  girl  had 
thought  it  no  breach  of  good  taste  to  pillow  her  tired 
head  on  Jim's  broad  shoulder.  She  remembered  that 
she  had  asked  him  if  her  head  were  heavy,  and  he  had 
said  no,  that  he  wished  she  would  pillow  it  there  for 
life,  which  was  really  quite  poetical  for  Jim. 

Lillian  remembered  how  happy  she  had  been  and 
how  she  had  thrilled  at  Jim's  first  kiss  as  he  had  bade 
her  good  night  and  she  had  realized  that  they  were 
to  belong  to  one  another  always. 

How  far  away  it  seemed  and  how  the  romance  had 
faded  before  the  sore  bread  and  butter  needs  of  every 
day! 

A  click  at  the  gate  roused  her,  and  looking  up  she 
saw  a  peculiar  figure  entering  the  yard,  guiding  a 
bicycle  which  he  rested  against  the  fence. 

From  the  long  curling  hair  and  flowing  beard,  Lil- 
lian recognized  the  man  as  one  of  a  religious  sect, 
"The  Holy  Communists," — on  the  outskirts  of  the 
town. 

Little  Lillian  toddled  to  the  steps  and  clambered 
up  on  the  porch,  clinging  to  her  mother's  skirts,  while 
the  boy  stood  with  an  attempted  show  of  bravery,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  the  intruder. 

"Pardon  me,  Madam,  may  I  trouble  you  for  a  glass 
of  water?  I  have  had  a  long  ride  and  I'm  very  thirsty. 
I  dislike  to  trouble  you — you  have  the  baby — I'll  hold 
her,  or  maybe  I  can  get  the  water?"  he  added  inter- 
rogatively. 

"No,  she'll  sit  right  here  on  the  porch.  I  won't  be 
gone  a  minute." 

Little  Lillian  clung  to  her  mother's  skirts  and  went 
into  the  house  with  her,  terrified  at  the  unusual  ap- 
pearance of  the  stranger,  but  the  baby  in  all  the  pleased 
innocence  of  her  babyhood  smiled  and  crowed  and  put 
out  her  little  hands  toward  the  man. 

He  touched  them  tenderly,  as  if  they  were  break- 
able, admiring  their  shell-like  pinkness. 

126 


When  Lillian  came  back,  he  had  the  baby  in  his 
arms. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  like  strangers  to  touch  your 
baby,  but  it  is  hard  to  resist  the  appeals  of  innocence," 
he  said,  taking  the  glass  of  water  poured  for  him. 
"Thank  you — Yes,  I  will  have  another." 

Lillian  looked  at  him  curiously.  She  recognized  him 
at  once  as  one  of  the  Community  of  Holy  Communists, 
a  religious  sect  that  was  established  on  a  large  fruit 
farm  just  outside  of  Kenton  Springs.  All  sorts  of 
wild  stories  were  current  about  these  people.  Their 
long  hair  which  both  men  and  women  wore  flowing, 
marked  them  as  set  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
when  they  went  abroad  amongst  the  "Gentiles." 

She  felt  nervous  at  being  left  alone  with  the  man  as 
her  nearest  neighbor  was  some  distance  away,  the 
street  having  been  recently  laid  out,  but  certainly 
nothing  in  the  man's  aspect  was  fear-inspiring.  His 
face  looked  pale  and  worn,  surrounded  by  the  long 
brown  hair  which  fell  to  his  shoulders,  and  the  curling 
brown  beard,  another  mark  of  his  sect.  Save  that  his 
clothing  was  dusty  from  his  ride,  his  linen  was 
clean  and  his  hands  were  as  white  and  slender  as  a 
woman's. 

"The  little  girl's  afraid.  Come,  I  won't  hurt  you. 
See,  sister  isn't  afraid." 

"I  ain't  afraid,"  spoke  up  Jim  Jr.  sturdily. 

"That's  right,  my  little  man,"  the  stranger  placed  his 
hand  upon  the  boy's  head — "I  had  a  little  son  like 
this  once." 

"Oh" — the  mother  said  in  a  pitying  tone,  "and  you 
have  lost  a  child?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  "No — I  left  him." 

"You  left  him.    I  do  not  understand." 

"The  world  can  not  understand — The  call  of  the 
Lord  can  not  be  disobeyed." 

"And  your  wife — what  of  her?" 

127 


"My  wife  would  not  heed  the  call.  She  remained 
behind  with  the  boy." 

Lillian  involuntarily  reached  out  and  took  her  baby. 

"Oh,  you  do  not  look  like  a  bad  man — but  to — desert 
your  wife  and  child !  It  seems  very  cruel  and  wicked." 

"I  know  it  must  seem  so  to  you.  If  those  we  love 
will  not  come  with  us,  we  must  heed  the  call  alone. 
That  is  part  of  the  test.  'Many  are  called,  but  few  are 
chosen.' — Why?  because  of  a  faltering  spirit. — 'Leave 
all  and  follow  me,  saith  the  Lord.'  At  the  call  of  the 
Lord,  his  God,  Abraham  of  old  was  ready  to  sacrifice 
Isaac,  his  son.  Shall  I,  in  the  light  of  the  beautiful 
truths  that  have  opened  unto  me,  be  less  brave?  'To 
him  that  overcometh  shall  I  grant  to  sit  down  with  me 
on  my  throne.' 

"Only  by  a  fierce  bitter  struggle  did  I  overcome  the 
lusts  of  the  flesh  to  enter  into  the  new  life.  We  are 
living  in  the  last  days.  The  signs  of  the  times  must 
be  read  aright.  'As  it  was  in  the  days  of  Noah,  so 
shall  it  be  in  the  coming  of  the  Son  of  Man.'  To  and 
fro  to  the  ends  of  the  Earth  are  we  the  Lord's  chosen 
journeying  to  draw  the  Elect  unto  us  to  await  the  final 
day.  It  behooves  us  to  lay  aside  earthly  desires. 
'There  shall  be  no  marrying  nor  joining  in  marriage 
in  that  day.'  'Be  ye  ready  for  ye  know  not  the  hour — 
In  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  at  the  sound 
of  the  last  trumpet  shall  we  be  caught  up — '  and  we 
are  preaching  God's  last  message  to  men." 

The  man's  eyes  glowed  with  a  strange  fire  as  he 
talked,  and  he  held  the  woman's  gaze,  almost  against 
her  will.  She  did  not  understand  him,  but  he  im- 
pressed her  with  his  earnestness. 

Little  Lillian  had  lost  her  fear  and  had  gone  back 
to  play  with  her  brother. 

"Sister — of  what  faith  are  you?" 

"I  guess  I  haven't  any.  I  used  to  go  to  church  some- 
times but  lately  I  don't  have  time  with  the  children 
and  the  house  work." 

128 


'Blessed  be  the  Lord  for  then  may  the  seed  fall 
upon  fertile  soil — soil  not  worn  out  with  dogmas.  Oh, 
if  you  only  knew  what  a  glorious  thing  it  is  to  come 
into  the  truth!  What  peace  and  joy  and  contentment 
will  be  given." 

"Come  into  the  light  before  it  is  too  late — 'The  Lord 
will  come  as  a  thief  in  the  night,'  but  not  unto  the 
Elect.  'One  shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left.'  Listen! 
which  will  you  be?" 

The  baby  had  fallen  asleep  upon  Lillian's  arm.  She 
rocked  mechanically  as  she  listened. 

"I   don't  think   I   understand  what  you're  talking- 
about.    Maybe  we  are  living  in  the  last  days,  I  don't 
know  as  I  care  very  much.     Life  isn't  so  mighty  en- 
joyable that  I'd  want  to  live  forever." 
The  man  rose. 

"Sister,  you  are  soul  weary.  I  won't  talk  any 
longer — May  I  leave  you  'the  little  book,'  and  our 
paper,"  he  added,  drawing  them  from  his  pocket. 

"Some  time,  if  you  are  willing,  I'll  come  again.  We'd 
like  to  see  you  on  Lord's  day.  The  trolley  cars  to 
Westman  Harbor,  bring  you  within  a  block  and  the 
conductor  will  point  out  the  place.  Our  service  is  at 
10  o'clock.  Thank  you  for  your  hospitality.  Good 
bye  little  ones,"  and  the  man  was  gone. 

She  watched  him  as  he  wheeled  away,  (his  long 
hair  flying  in  the  wind) — with  strange  sensations.  He 
seemed  a  visitor  from  another  world  who  had  dropped 
down  into  the  more  commonplace  prosaicness  of  her 
own.  Then  she  shook  off  the  spell  and  tried  to  laugh 
as  she  thought  of  how  often  Jim  had  spoken  of  these 
people  as  cranks  and  freaks. 

The  sleeping  baby  she  took  into  the  house  and  laid 
upon  the  bed  covering  it  lovingly.  "What  a  strange 
religion  that  would  make  one  leave  hrs  babies!"  She 
shuddered  and  leaned  over  to  kiss  the  mouth — all 
dewy  and  open  like  a  half  blown  rose. 

But  she  put  away  the  paper  and  little  book,  and 

129 


strange  to  say  when  Jim  came  home  she  did  not  speak 
of  her  visitor.  Yet  Lillian  thought  of  him  a  great  deal. 

Discontented,  tired,  soul-weary,  she  was  ready  for 
any  new  train  of  thought  that  promised  a  diversion. 
Were  these  the  last  days?  Then  how  useless  aught 
except  that  which  meant  a  preparation  for  the  final 
summons.  Jim's  wife  was  not  a  religious  woman, 
but  like  all  women,  her  heart  responded  to  a  spiritual 
appeal.  What  strange  things  the  man  said.  She  won- 
dered vaguely  what  the  church  was  like.  On  Sunday 
morning  as  Jim  sat  out  on  the  veranda  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  smoking  his  pipe,  she  came  out  with  her  hat 
in  her  hand. 

"Jim,"  she  said  slowly,  sticking  her  hat  pin  back 
and  forth  in  her  hat  as  she  talked,  "I  think  I'll  take  a 
little  walk.  Dinner's  all  fixed  ready  to  cook  when  I 
come  back.  I  have  a  sort  of  a  headache  and  I  think 
it'll  do  me  good." 

Jim  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Why  yes,  go  ahead — but  ain't  it  kind  of  sudden?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  is.  I  thought  'twould  make 
me  feel  better." 

"All  right — just  get  back  to  get  dinner,  that's  all." 

When  she  returned  Jim  was  in  the  kitchen  playing 
both  nurse  and  cook. 

"Is  your  head  better,  girl,"  he  asked.  "We  just 
put  on  the  potatoes,  and  put  the  roast  in,  and  I  think 
everything  is  going  to  be  all  right.  Where  did  you  go? 
You  were  gone  longer  than  I  thought  you  would  be." 

She  avoided  his  glance. 

"Oh,  I  walked  around  a  while  and  then  I  took  a 
little  trolley  ride  to  Westman  Harbor." 

She  bustled  about  setting  the  table  and  preparing 
the  meal  and  Jim  did  not  ask  any  more  questions. 

During  the  week  her  long-haired  visitor  came  again, 
but  this  time  she  was  expecting  him  and  invited  him  in. 

"You  said  I  might  come  and  talk  with  you,  sister, 
and  we  were  glad  to  welcome  you  at  church  last 

ISO 


Sunday.  Were  you  interested?  I  felt  that  you  must 
have  been  or  you  wouldn't  have  come." 

The  children  were  all  tucked  away  for  an  afternoon 
nap.  Lillian  had  been  scrubbing  the  kitchen  floor  and 
sat  drying  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"Yes,  I  was  interested,"  she  replied,  but  it  seems 
hard  to  understand.  Why  do  you  all  gather  in  that  big 
house  together?  Couldn't  you  believe  as  you  do  and 
stay  at  home?  You  said  you  had  left  your  wife  and 
little  boy." 

A  sorrowful  shadow  crossed  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  did.  We  cannot  live  the  life  of  the  sanctified 
unless  we  set  ourselves  apart  and  if  those  we  love  will 
not  come  into  the  light  and  truth,  we  must  go  alone.  The 
world  is  full  of  evil.  To  prepare  ourselves  for  the  end 
of  the  present  dispensation  and  for  the  future  life  of 
bliss  we  must  set  aside  the  lusts  of  the  flesh — live  sim- 
ply, dress  as  those  who  care  naught  for  the  riches  of  the 
world,  the  things  which  shall  pass  away.  "My  word 
shall  not  pass  away,"  He  saith.  "Blessed  and  holy  are 
they  who  have  part  in  the  first  resurrection  for  on  such 
second  death  hath  no  power." 

For  an  hour  he  talked  unfolding  the  views  of  his 
sect;  of  the  life  in  the  community — of  his  people,  and 
at  the  close  Lillian  was  almost  persuaded  to  accept  his 
belief.  After  he  had  gone  she  felt  restless — dissatisfied 
— the  last  days — why  did  she  not  make  ready  for  them? 
She  could  not  yet  shake  off  the  conventionality  of  her 
life  and  accept  the  doctrines  which  seemed  so  new  and 
strange.  And  then  Jim — would  he  come  with  her?  If 
not,  would  he  keep  the  darling  babies?  She  shuddered 
and  put  the  thought  from  her  mind.  But  there  came  a 
day  when  she  was  brought  to  a  standstill. 

One  Sunday  morning  she  told  Jim  she  was  going  for 
a  walk. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Lillian,  where  do  you  go  every  Sunday?" 

"I  go  for  a  walk." 

131 


"See  here,"  he  said  sternly,  "have  you  come  to  the 
place  where  you  can  lie  to  me?  Where  do  you  go?" 

"I  go  to  church." 

"Where?" 

"To  the  Church  of  the  Israelites" — she  was  trying 
to  speak  quietly. 

"Great  God!  You"  don't  mean  those  long-haired 
freaks?"  - 

She  came  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Jim,  don't  speak  so.  I  have  adopted  their  faith.  I 
want  you  to  come  into  the  light  of  the  truth.  Jim  we 
are  living  in  the  last  days.  I  know  it.  I  want  you  and 
the  babies  to  come  with  me — to  live  there  with  the 
blessed  elect — and  await  the  call  of  the  Lord  to  Jeru- 
salem— where  the  elect  are  to  gather  for  the  final  sum- 
mons." 

It  was  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had  struck  him  to  the 
earth. 

"Lillian,  my  God!  Are  you  in  your  senses?  Are  you 
ill  or  crazy?  What  are  you  talking  about?  Am  I 
dreaming  or  have  I  lost  my  own  reason?" 

She  clung  to  his  arm  with  both  of  hers. 

"No,  no  Jim,  I  mean  every  word.  You  must  learn 
to  believe  as  I  believe — the  truth.  I  was  discontented 
and  restless.  Now  I  am  at  peace.  We  will  sell  the 
house  and  take  the  money  for  the  spread  of  the  truth." 

"So  you've  let  these  crazy  fanatics  get  around  you — 
have  you?  Well,  you  can't  take  the  babies  and  I 
won't  go.  You  can  sell  the  house,  because  it's  yours, 
if  you  want  to  leave  us  on  the  street,  but  if  you  go 
away,  you  go  alone." 

"Jim,  Jim,  dear,  you  can't  mean  that.  You  will  go 
with  me,  and  let  me  have  the  babies." 

"Never!  And  if  you  count  all  our  happiness  in  our 
little  home  for  nothing,  you'll  go,  but  you'll  go  alone." 

She  broke  into  sobs — and  stood  thus  clinging  to  him 
for  some  moments.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  him. 

132 


"Jim,  whatever  you  think  of  me — I  know  I'm  right. 
If  you  will  not  come  with  me  I  must  go.  It  is  my 
duty. 

He  stared  at  her  as  one  bereft. 

"You  are  going  to  leave  me?" 

"It  is  the  call  of  the  Lord,"  she  answered  firmly. 

Some  days  later  when  Jim  came  home  from  work, 
she  had  her  belongings  ready  and  the  little  ones  neatly 
dressed,  and  the  supper  prepared. 

He  did  not  say  one  word  against  it  when  she  left 
him  alone.  How  he  got  along  he  did  not  quite  jmow. 
His  mother,  a  hardworking  woman  with  a  fund  of 
energy  and  common  sense,  came  over  to  look  after  the 
children,  shutting  up  her  own  little  home  for  the  time 
being. 

"It  was  what  might  be  expected  when  you  married 
a  girl  with  a  pretty  face  and  nothin'  back  of  it.  I  allus 
said  she  did  not  know  a  great  deal,  but  I  never  looked 
for  this.  Gallivantin'  off  with  a  lot  of  queer  folks, 
livin'  nobody  knows  how,  all  jumbled  together."  She 
said  to  Jim.  Jim  stopped  her — 

"Don't  you  find  fault  with  Lillian,  mother.  I  can't 
stand  it  now." 

But  she  grumbled  and  scolded  all  day  to  herself  and 
the  fretting  babies — fretting  for  their  mother  who 
came  not. 

One  day  the  baby,  the  littlest  one,  fell  ill,  and  the 
grandmother  grumbled  and  scolded  while  the  baby 
moaned  and  moaned  its  tiny  life  away. 

When  Jim  came  home  that  night  she  told  him  that 
the  Doctor  had  said  there  was  no  hope,  and  the  strong 
man  sat  down  and  took  the  child  upon  his  lap,  the 
great  tears  falling  upon  the  little  white  night-dress. 
Then  Jim's  mother  made  a  resolution.  She  got  up 
and  went  out  of  the  house  and  boarded  the  trolley  car 
for  Westman  Harbor. 

The  big  white  house  where  the  community  was  es- 
tablished was  at  the  end  of  the  cross  street  facing  her. 

133 


A  woman  with  long  hair  streaming  about  her  shoulders 
knelt  down  in  front  of  the  flower  bed  setting  out  some 
single  plants.  Mrs.  Reed  walked  up  to  her. 

"Lillian  Reed,  do  you  know  me?" 

The  woman  arose  from  her  knees. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?" 

Mrs.  Reed  the  elder,  squared  herself. 

"Well,  first  I  want  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you 
mixin'  yourself  up  with  the  lunatic  crowd  and  thinkin' 
you're  gettin'  religion.  No  wonder  this  place  looks 
prosperous  if  they  get  hold  of  fools  like  you  to  sup- 
port it.  It's  a  wonder  you  ain't  sold  the  house  and 
pushed  Jim  out  before  this.  If  you're  still  a  decent 
woman  and  not  a  sinner,  you'd  better  come  home  to  the 
baby  you  left  if  you  want  to  see  her  aliv£." 

Lillian  turned  pale. 

"My  baby  is  dying!"  she  cried  and  rushed  into  the 
house,  returning  in  an  instant. 

"I  will  go  home  with  you,  "she  said  tremblingly. 

A  long-haired  disciple  followed  her  down  the  ver- 
anda steps. 

"Sister  Lillian,  where  are  you  going?" 

"I  am  going  home  to  my  dying  baby." 

."Sister  Lillian,  have  you  not  crucified  the  flesh — cut 
away  your  former  ties?" 

Jim's  mother  wheeled  around. 

"You  let  this  deluded  girl  alone.  She's  goin'  home 
with  me.  You'd  better  get  inside  and  cut  that  out- 
landish hair  of  yours" — and  with  that  parting  shot  she 
walked  away  with  her  daughter-in-law. 

When  they  reached  the  little  house,  Lillian  stood 
gathering  courage  to  enter. 

Jim  still  sat  holding  the  baby. 

She  came  and  knelt  beside  him.  The  baby  lay  gasp- 
ing— in  its  last  death  throes. 

"Let  me  hold  her  once  more.  Oh,  let  me  hold  her 
once  more,"  she  cried,  and  he  suffered  her  to  take  the 
child,  and  the  little  life  ebbed  away  in  her  arms. 

134 


When  the  baby  form  was  quite  hushed  and  still  she 
arose  and  laid  it  upon  the  bed  and  then  came  and 
knelt  beside  her  husband,  sobbing  as-  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

"Oh,  Jim,  I  have  only  wronged  you  in  that  I  went 
away — forgive  me,  forgive  me — my  eyes  are  opened. 
My  life  belongs  to  you — my  love — my  devotion.  God 
has  punished  me  by  taking  my  baby.  Let  me  come 
back  to  you,  oh,  my  husband,  let  me  come  back  to 
you." 

The  rough  toil-worn  hands  took  hers. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  find  fault  with  you,  my  girl.  I  guess 
God  has  punished  you  enough — and  I  guess  we  need 
you  here."  Then  she  kissed  the  hands  that  held  hers, 
while  her  tears  fell  like  rain. 


135 


"THE  MUSE  REBELLIOUS." 

At  midnight  I  rose  and  took  pen  in  hand 

To  woo  the  Muse  fickle  and  fair, 
And  though  I  sat  long  with  brow  wrinkled  o'er, 

She  came  not  from  out  of  her  lair. 

Oh  Lady  Divine,  pray  list  to  my  plea, 

'Tis  gallons  and  gallons  of  oil 
I've  burned  at  thy  shrine,  oh  give  ear  unto  me, 

In  thy  service  I'm  longing  to  toil. 

With  eyes  flashing  fire  and  face  full  of  scorn, 

She  came  and  I  cowered  with  fear. 
You  call,  modern  wretch,  and  pretend  that  you  woo. 

I  answer  you — see,  I  am  here. 

A  suitor  you  are  burning  gallons  of  oil — 

A  pitiful  figure  of  speech! 
Pray,  where  is  the  lamp  with  its  flickering  flame? 

My  charms  are  quite  out  of  your  reach. 

And  where  are  the  shadows  from  fire-light  glow 
That  chased  back  and  forth  o'er  the  wall? 

Pray,  how  can  I  throw,  in  this  horrible  glare, 
My  mystical  spell  over  all? 

Alas  and  alack  and  woe,  woe  is  me ! 

For  I'm  in  a  desperate  plight. 
Think  you  I'll  be  wooed  in  a  steam-heated  flat 

And  won  'neath  electrical  light?- 


136 


MRS.  BARKER'S  SPIRIT 

Of  all  the  awkward,  long-legged  men  you  ever  saw, 
old  Dr.  Barker  of  Brownsburg,  Mississippi,  would  cer- 
tainly have  taken  the  palm.  So  long-legged  was  he  and 
so  small  a  horse  did  he  ride  that  it  was  confidently  as- 
serted by  eye-witnesses  that  he  did  not  ride  at  all  when 
he  went  up  hill,  but  pushed  his  horse  along  under  him 
as  he  walked.  However,  there  never  breathed  a  man 
so  eccentric,  so  halt,  so  lame  or  so  blind  that  he  could 
not  take  unto  himself  a  partner  for  life,  if  he  so  desired ; 
and  Miss  Celestia  Mudd  had  kept  her  eyes  Barker- 
ward,  ever  since  the  first  Mrs.  Barker  had  "shuffled  off 
this  mortal  coil"  and  had  been  gathered  unto  her  fore- 
mothers.  , 

Of  this  state  of  affairs,  the  good  Doctor  was  uncon- 
scious, being  a  sincere  mourner  for  his  deceased  wife — 
in  fact,  so  persistent  a  mourner  that  three  years  had 
now  elapsed  since  her  death  and  his  grief  showed  no 
signs  of  abating,  indeed  seemed  rather  to  increase. 

The  good  man  instead  of  keeping  one  eye  open  for 
number  "Two"  after  a  reasonable  length  of  time  spent 
in  sorrowing  for  number  "One,"  was  making  strenuous 
efforts  to  communicate  with  his  former  partner,  by 
means  of  spiritualistic  mediums.  It  was  in  the  late 
forties,  just  about  the  time  the  famous  Rochester  rap- 
pings  were  supposed  to  be  an  attempt  by  the  spirit 
world  to  establish  a  means  of  communication  with 
Real,  Live,  Flesh  and  Blood  people. 

Spiritualistic  seances  were,  so  to  speak,  the  rage. 
Believers  were  wildly  enthusiastic,  and  unbelievers 
held  meetings  night  after  night,  for  the  purpose  of  test- 
ing the  matter.  Private  parlors  as  well  as  public  halls 
were 'the  scenes  of  many  table-tippings  and  it  was  a 

137 


very  unaccomplished  sort  of  a  table  indeed  that  could 
not  dance  under  the  slightest  provocation.  Many  a 
seance  was  held  in  Dr.  Barker's  parlor  and  the  carved 
legs  of  the  old  mahogany  centre  table  must  have  fairly 
ached  considering  the  number  of  acrobatic  perform- 
ances they  were  expected  to  go  through,  now  in  their 
old  age,  when  they  had  stood  decorously  and  properly 
for  so  long  a  period.  The  doctor,  it  was  said,  had  re- 
ceived several  communications  from  his  wife.  She  was 
well,  happy  and  so  forth;  which  communications  Miss 
Celestia  Mudd  took  in  very  bad  part.  She  thought  it 
high  time  for  Mrs.  Barker  to  relinquish  her  hold  upon 
the  doctor's  affections  and  leave  them  to  some  spirit 
still  inhabiting  a  tangible  body.  Miss  Mudd  consid- 
ered Mrs.  Barker's  spirit  a  very  unreasonable  sort  of 
a  spirit  indeed  and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  things 
had  gone  on  in  the  present  way  quite  long  enough,  a 
decision  that  put  the  spirit  of  Mrs.  Barker  at  a  decided 
disadvantage. 

Miss  Mudd  became  an  enthusiast.  Not  a  meeting 
but  found  her  bony  hands  upon  the  table  and  her 
hatchet  face  peering  out  of  the  dim  light  in  the  room, 
like  the  face  of  some  evil  genius.  Such  enthusiasm 
could  not  fail  to  attract  the  doctor's  notice  and  many 
discussions  did  they  have  upon  the  subject,  each  dis- 
cussion carrying  the  spirit  of  the  late  Mrs.  Barker  fur- 
ther away  from  the  doctor's  thoughts  and  scoring  a 
triumph  for  the  spinster.  The  climax  was  capped  one 
night  in  the  doctor's  parlor.  The  darkened  room  with 
its  faded  damask  curtains,  dingy  furniture  and  staring 
oil  portraits  looked  ghostly  enough  to  suit  even  the 
most  ardent  believer.  Around  the  table  sat  an  eager, 
expectant,  half-fearful  group,  two  elderly  gentlemen, 
three  young  men,  two  young  ladies,  dainty  enough  in 
their  white  muslin  gowns  to  be  disembodied  spirits 
themselves;  Miss  Celestia  Mudd,  and  little  Joe,  the 
doctor's  son,  who  was  considered  a  strong  medium.  A 
pathetic  figure  was  Joe  with  his  pale  face  and  wistful 

138 


blue  eyes,  looking  more  like  a  dwarfed  man  than  a 
child  as  he  sat  with  his  tiny  hands  upon  the  table,  a 
connecting  link  between  the  spirit  world  and  this,  at  a 
time  when  most  little  boys  of  his  age  were  tucked 
snugly  away  in  bed. 

Shade  after  shade  was  called,  George  Washington, 
Lafayette,  Shakespeare,  but  tired  nature  would  assert 
herself  and  the  little  medium  would  nod  and  his  hands 
would  slip  off  the  table,  causing  the  further  conversa- 
tion with  the  spirits  to  assume  rather  a  ludicrous  turn. 

"Is  this  the  spirit  of  the  great  George  Washington?" 

"Put  your  hands  on  the  table,  Joe." 

"What  says  the  shade  of  the  immortal  Shakespeare?" 

"Put  your  hands  on  the  table,  Joe." 

Numerous  greater  and  lesser  spirits  had  been  called 
up,  the  table  had  tipped  and  danced  in  a  manner  calcu- 
lated to  convince  the  most  virulent  unbeliever,  when 
suddenly  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  Miss  Celestia 
Mudd,  who  was  acting,  to  say  the  least,  very  pecu- 
liarly. She  groaned  and  rocked  to  and  fro,  at  last  going 
off  into  a  sort  of  trance,  during  which  she  said  and  did 
all  manner  of  strange  things.  In  fact  she  claimed  not 
to  be  herself  at  all  but  the  late  Mrs.  Barker,  finally 
calling  for  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  writing 
thereon  in  a  very  rapid  manner,  the  sum  and  substance 
of  the  superscription  being  as  follows: 

"My  Dear  Husband:  I  am  well  and  happy  and  I 
hope  you  are  the  same  (this  was  the  manner  in  which 
the  late  Mrs.  B.,  not  being  remarkable  for  versatility 
or  brilliance  of  intellect,  had  begun  every  letter  she 
had  ever  written  while  in  the  flesh) .  I  am  so  much  hap- 
pier than  I  ever  was  on  earth  that  I  beg  you  won't  try 
to  communicate  with  me  in  any  way.  It  distresses  me 
to  come  back  to  earth  and  find  the  house  so  ill-cared 
for,  and  dirty.  Look  about  you  and  find  some  good, 
neat  woman  near  your  own  age  who  will  marry  you 
and  take  charge  of  the  house.  Kiss  our  boy  for  me 

ins 


and  tell  him  to  be  good  and  love  his  new  mother.   Fol- 
low out  my  wishes  and  you  will  be  happy  and  blessed. 

"Your  loving  wife, 

"Mary  Ann  Barker." 

Every  one  was,  of  course,  much  astonished  at  the 
epistle  and  no  one  more  so  than  Miss  Celestia  Mudd 
upon  coming  out  of  her  trance.  She  professed  to  know 
nothing  of  what  had  happened  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  deny  having  written  anything  at  all.  The  doctor 
seemed  much  impressed  by  the  letter  which  he  folded 
and  put  carefully  away  in  his  pocket.  It  is  presumable 
that  he  decided  to  take  the  advice  set  down  therein  for 
seances  were  held  no  more  at  his  home  and  he  began  to 
cast  sheep's  eyes  at  the  fair  sex  once  more.  There  were 
some  persons  mean  and  unkind  enough  to  say  that  the 
trance  was  all  a  hoax  and  the  letter  had  been  a  scheme 
to  inveigle  the  doctor  into  matrimony,  that  Miss  Mudd 
had  thrown  herself  in  the  doctor's  way  times  out  of 
number  after  this  and  that  she  was  unusually  tender 
towards  little  Joe. 

Let  us  be  charitable,  however.  Rather  let  us  pity 
than  condemn.  Not  long  after  the  doctor  took  unto 
himself  a  second  Mrs.  Barker.  The  lady's  maiden 
name,  however,  was  NOT  Celestia  Mudd. 


J4O 


"A  CHEERFUL  LIAR." 

Hiram  Powers  wuz  the  biggest  liar  in  Briggs 
County.  Now  that  may  sound  like  a  slander,  an'  you 
bein'  a  city  feller,  may  think  us  country  folks  air  run- 
nin'  each  other  down. 

No,  no — you  can't  pay  me  fur  them  apples.  Help 
yourself.  Of  course  I'm  tryin'  to  run  this  store  fur 
profit,  but  I  guess  I  kin  treat  a  leetle  now  an'  then. 

Kinder  dull  this  time  o'  day  an'  the  early  part  of  the 
week,  but  Saturday  makes  up  fur  it.  It  keeps  four  of 
us  a  humpin',  I  tell  ye,  to  wait  on  customers.  Guess  I'll 
eat  an  apple  along  with  ye.  Well,  I  was  a  sayin'  that 
Hiram  Powers  was  the  biggest  liar  in  the  county.  I've 
hearn  tell  the  Lord  loves  a  cheerful  giver,  but  I'm 
thinkin'  it  oughter  be  changed  to  a  cheerful  liar,  fur 
the  man  that  kin  lie  with  as  straight  a  face  as  Hiram 
could,  certain  sure  deserves  to  be  respected  and  liked* 
That  sounds  kinder  queer  fur  me  to  say,  don't  it?  But 
you  can't  help  admiring  any  man  that  kin  do  any  thing 
remarkable  and  Hi  sure  could  lie.  Warn't  never  mean 
about  it,  tho',  an'  warn't  no  hand  to  make  up  lies  'bout 
other  people.  Jest  things  that  happened  to  hisself  or 
his  relations.  I  remember  'bout  his  tellin'  that  his 
wife  had  two  little  pet  garter  snakes  that  she  had 
trained  to  hold  her  stockings  up  and  when  they  died 
she  felt  so  bad  that  she  just  hated  to  go  and  buy  them 
elastic  ones.  Thought  we  believed  him,  too.  Say, 
stranger,  what  did  you  say  your  name  was?  Oh  yes, 
Perkins — Stayin'  up  to  Green's  lake  fur  the  summer, 
ain't  ye?  What  kind  of  grub  do  they  put  up  there? 
Feed  ye  pretty  good,  do  they?  Wall,  Mr.  Perkins, 
ye'd  never  believe  how  Hi  could  lie.  No  matter  what 

141 


happened  to  anyone  else — something  of  the  same  kind 
ud  allus  happen  to  him,  let  him  tell  it. 

I  remember  once  he  was  standin'  alongside  a  fence 
talkin'  to  Bill  Brown,  when  his  hawses,  ole  Dobb  an' 
Bob,  got  skeered  an'  run  a  leetle  ways  and  busted  a 
bolt  on  the  wagon  an'  when  sometime  after,  Al  Hank- 
er's  hawses  sure  did  run  away  an'  bust  up  things,  if 
old  Hi  didn't  tell  how  Bob  an'  Dobb  run  away  an' 
busted  the  wagon  to  smithereens  an'  broke  two  of  his 
ribs  an'  he  not  near  the  wagon  when  the  hawses  run. 

He  beat  that  there  Annernias,  the  Bible  tells  about, 
all  holler.  Somebody  told  about  a  feller  that  walked 
in  his  sleep  an'  then  Hi  piped  up  an'  said  he  had  gone 
out  an'  hitched  up  the  hawses  an'  plowed  several  fur- 
rers  in  his  sleep  an'  never  knowed  it  until  the  next 
mornin'. 

Hi  ain't  very  fond  of  work  an'  Jim  Green  said  he  bet 
ef  Hi  was  workin'  'twas  in  his  sleep.  Quite  a  joker, 
Jim  is.  Then  somebody  told  about  people  thinkin' 
folks  lived  on  Mars — is  that  the  place?  Well,  I  swan, 
ef  Hi  didn't  say  he  knew  it,  cause  when  he  was  in  the 
city  he  looked  through  a  telescope  an'  could  see  'em 
"jest  as  plain  as  day,  walkin'  around  an'  laughin'  an' 
talkin'.  Well,  Mr.  Perkins,  some  of  them  fellers 
around  here  thought  they'd  put  up  a  job  of  some  kind 
on  Hi.  The  boys  used  to  gather  round  the  stove  in 
the  store  here  winter  days  when  there  warn't  much 
doin'  on  the  farms  an'  swap  lies  an'  stories  but  they 
never  could  get  ahead  of  Hi.  So  they  agreed  to  tell 
the  biggest  whoppers  they  could  so  as  to  draw  Hi 
on  an'  drown  him  out  as  it  were.  Lie  after  lie,  each 
one  bigger  than  the  t'other,  was  told  an'  at  last  Jim 
Green  said  when  he  wuz  a  boy  his  folks  used  to  have 
a  pet  hippypotamus  that  his  uncle  had  sent  from 
Africy  an'  that  it  was  so  tame,  it  would  eat  out  of  your 
hand.  Ever  see  a  hippo's  mouth,  stranger — er — Mr. 
Perkins,  I  mean?  Well,  then  you  know  how  rediclus 
that  was. 

142 


Hiram  went  on  a  smokin'  an'  a  spittin'  agin  the  stove 
an'  a  doin'  a  pile  of  thinkin'.  There  was  a  city  feller, 
a  drummer,  in  town  that  day,  an'  he  wuz  onto  the 
game  an'  his  story  wuz  to  come  last  an'  he  wuz  to  tell 
about  a  plesi-plesio.  What's  that?  Plesiosaurus? 
That's  the  thing.  He  had  explained  that  it  wuz  some- 
thin'  that  had  lived  long  before  there  wuz  even  Adam 
an'  Eve  an'  that  it  was  a  monster. 

"Ever  see  a  plesiosaurus,  Mr.  Powers?"  says  the 
drummer,  careless  like. 

"I  should  say  I  did,"  says  Hi,  cherkin'  up  in  a 
minute.  "Used  to  have  one." 

Well,  I  vum,  Mr.  Perkins,  ef  the  drummer  warn't 
so  clean  taken  aback  that  he  couldn't  say  a  word,  'cept 
repeat,  "Used  to  have  one?" 

"Sure,"  says  Hi,  "greatest  pet  you  ever  see — raised 
it  from  a  baby  an'  it  was  so  tame  the  children  used  to 
ride  it  around  everywhere  hitched  to  a  leetle  go  cart. 
We  got  it  a  leetle  collar  with  bells  on  it  an'  you  could 
hear  it  runnin'  forty  rods  away.  Prettiest  white  wool 
on  it  ye  ever  see. — Marthy  used  to  make  stockings  fur 
the  boys  from  the  wool.  Tho'  the  way  it  looked  when 
it  was  sheared  allus  made  me  bust  laffin'.  We  used  to 
call  him  Plesi  fur  short  an'  before  Plesi  was  tame  he 
was  better'n  any  watch  dog  ye  ever  see — an'  once 
when  thieves  come  round  Plesi  yelped  an'  skeered  'em 
away.  If  he'd  caught  'em  he'd — " 

But  the  drummer  got  kinder  tired  of  lettin'  him  lie 
so  straight  an'  havin'  recovered  from  his  surprise,  he 
says,  interrupting  "Well,  I  really  don't  understand  how 
you  could  have  had  an  animal  like  that,  fur  that's  been 
extinct  for  years." 

"Yes,  it  used  to  be,  kinder,"  says  Hi,  "but  we 
thought  a  awful  lot  of  it  jest  the  same.  An'  when  it 
was  killed — Lordy,  I  swan  ef  they  didn't  all  cry  'cept 
me  an'  I  felt  bloomin'  bad,  I  tell  ye." 

'"Why,  man,  the  Plesiosaurus  was  a  pre-historic  an- 
imal— " 

143 


Queer  I  remember  the  word,  but  that  was  what  the 
drummer  said  gittin'  kinder  mad — "Lived  before  the 
world  wuz  made — " 

"I  knowed  'twas  a  rare  animal,"  says  Hi,  not  blinkin* 
a  eyelash,  "fur  a  curcus  man  offered  me  a  thousand 
dollars  fur  it  but  we  wuz  too  fond  of  it." 

I  furgot  to  tell  you  that  Hi  could  juggle  riggers  to 
beat  time.  They  say  figgers  won't  lie,  but  Hi's  did. 
Ef  he'd  have  about  twenty  summer  boarders,  all  told, 
a  season  an'  you'd  ask  him  ef  'twas  a  busy  summer, 
he'd  jest  as  like  as  not  say  they'd  fed  500  that  season — 
Well,  I  swan,  ef  the  drummer  (an'  he  was  a  pretty 
good  talker,  too)  warn't  struck  dumb. 

Hi  would  a  been  talkin'  yit  about  that  animule  ef 
the  circle  hadn't  broke  up.  Everybody  went  away 
discouraged  with  tryin'  to  beat  Hi  lyin'.  An'  Hi  set 
there  lookin'  kinder  thoughtful — he  acterly  looked  sad. 
"Poor  little  Plesi,"  he  says,  "it  sure  broke  my  heart 
when  he  died." 


144 


"THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY." 
A  One  Act  Play  of  Witchcraft  Days. 
Scene — Room  in  a  Puritan  Home. 
Time— The  latter  part  of  the  17th  Century. 
Characters — 

Agnes  Redmond  Thankful  Wolfe 

Ruby  Redmond  Patience  Plum 

Henry  Vane  Mercy  Plum 

Roger  Vane  Charity  Long 

Faith  Coddington 

Ruby  sits  at  the  spinning  or  flax-wheel — Song  out- 
side— or  Ruby  sings. 

Enter — Agnes  Redmond.     (Pauses  at  the  door.) 
Agnes :    "She  is  my  one  bit  of  joy  in  this  dark  land. 
Thank  God  for  my  child— 'Ruby.' " 

(Ruby  runs  to  her  mother  and  leads  her  to  a  chair.) 
Ruby:     "Oh,  mother,  dear!     Thou  art  weary"  (re- 
moves her  cape).    "Hast  thou  toiled  all  day?" 
Agnes:    "Aye,  all  day,  dearest  heart"  (sitting). 
Ruby:.  "Why  dost  thou  work  like  this?     There  is 
no  need.    We  two  can  live  on  so  little,  mother,  dear." 

Agnes:  "We  need  the  pittance  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  this  poor  door,  dear  heart." 

Ruby :  "But,  mother ;  why  not  let  me  go  while  thou 
remainest  to  tidy  up  the  home  and  mend  the  clothes? 
I  am  young  and  strong." 

Agnes:  "Thou!  Why  Ruby;  thou  art  not  strong 
enough  to  scrub  the  court-room  floor  and  wash  the 
benches  of  the  meeting-house.  Thou  couldst  not  sew 
the  heavy  cloth  and  fashion  garments  for  the  men. 
And  then,  someone  must  bide  at  home." 

Ruby  (kneeling  by  Agnes)  :  "But  mother — these 
dear  hands  of  yours  were  never  made  for  such  rough 

145 


work.  They  are  fashioned  slenderly;  thou  dost  not 
seem  like  these  other  women  here.  I  sometimes  think 
thou  wert  a  Princess." 

Agnes:  "A  Princess!  Nay,  nay,  sweet  child,  but  I 
was  the  daughter  of  a  Cavalier,  thy  father  was  a  Puri- 
tan, but  I  loved  him  and  for  this  thy  Grandsire  dis- 
owned me.  All  my  laces,  broideries  and  silken  robes 
I  laid  aside.  Thy  father's  religion  forbade  the  wearing 
of  such  fripperies." 

Ruby:  "Laces,  silks  and  broideries!  Oh,  mother, 
i£  I  could  but  see  them — wear  them!" 

Agnes:  "Sh!"  (With  finger  on  her  lips,  looking 
about  her.)  "Someone  might  hear  thee.  Such  talk  be- 
fitteth  not  this  godly  land.  These  things  are  tempta- 
tions of  the  Evil  One,  and  yet,  sometimes  I  long — " 

Ruby  (eagerly)  :  "Oh,  I  know,  I  know ;  I've  seen 
it  in  thine  eyes — the  longing  for  those  other  days — I 
knew  there  were  those  other  days — for  once  I  saw — " 

Agnes  (with  excitement):    "What  didst  thou  see?" 

Ruby :  "  'Twas  when  thou  wert  asleep  and  didst 
mutter  in  thy  sleep  one  night  and  I  arose  and  lit  the 
candle,  then  touched  thy  forehead  to  see  if  thou  wert 
fever-tossed.  There  by  the  candle's  light  I  saw  about 
thy  neck  a  chain  of  gold." 

Agnes  (clasping  her  hands) :  "God  in  Heaven  for- 
give me  for  my  sin!" 

Ruby:     "Mother,  dear,  why  speakest  thou  so?" 

Agnes:  "Are  we  not  commanded  to  lay  aside  the 
lusts  of  the  flesh?  Does  not  the  Good  Book  say, 
'Whose  adorning,  let  it  not  be  that  outward  adorning 
of  plaiting  the  hair  and  of  wearing  of  gold  or  of  put- 
ting on  of  apparel ;  but  let  it  be  the  hidden  man  of  the 
heart  withal,  which  is  not  corruptible,  even  the  orna- 
ment of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit,  which  is  in  the  sight 
of  God  of  Great  Price.'  " 

Ruby:  "But  mother,  surely  the  Great  God  cannot 
believe  that  beauty  is  a  sin — else  why  the  lovely  sky, 
the  brilliant  sunset,  the  glow  of  dawn  and  all  the  ex- 

149 


quisite  flowers  that  spring  up  unbidden  in  the  meadows 
when  the  summer  is  at  hand.  Oh,  mother !  I  dare  not 
whisper  all  I  feel,  but  this  Great  God  that  we  hear 
about  on  the  Sabbath  Day  seems  very  far  away,  but  the 
God  that  made  the  running  brook,  who  whispers  to  me 
in  the  breeze,  seems  like  the  kind,  good  father  I  have 
never  known — the  dear  father,  who  died  'ere  I  was 
born." 

Agnes:  "Aye — he  was  good  and  gentle,  my  child — 
not  austere  like  these  men  about  us.  He  let  me  wear 
this  chain  beneath  my  gown,  though  he,  too,  feared 
that  'twas  a  deadly  sin,  for  when  he  first  set  eyes  on 
me  I  wore  the  chain  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  loved 
to  see  it  round  my  neck.  So  when  thou  didst  come  into 
my  life  I  called  thee  'Ruby.' " 

Ruby :  "Is  that  the  name  of  the  stone  that  sparkles 
like  a  bit  of  fire  upon  the  ornament — Oh,  mother !  may 
I  look  at  it  again?" 

Agnes:  "No,  no,  my  child.  Put  away  .such 
thoughts.  See — I  will  cast  aside  the  chain."  (Tears 
it  from  her  neck.)  "I  must  not  tempt  thee,  sweet  one. 
These  things  are  of  the  world  beyond  the  seas  and  we 
who  fled  from  its  vanities  and  sin  must  think  only  upon 
the  beauty  of  Holiness."  (Rises.)  "Come,  lay  the 
cloth,  and  we  will  have  our  simple  meal  'ere  the  eve- 
ning shadows  fall." 

(Exit  Agnes.) 

(Ruby  hesitates,  then  runs  and  picks  up  the  locket.) 
Ruby:     "Oh,  how  beautiful!     If  I  could  but  try  it 
on  my  neck !    Surely  the  Good  God  would  not  count  it 
as  a  sin  against  me." 

(Agnes  comes  to  the  door.)     (Ruby  hides  the  chain.) 

Agnes:     "Ruby,   Mistress   Coddington  hath   called 

from  her  door.    Her  child  is  worse  and  I  will  take  some 

herbs  to  aid  the  little  one."     (Takes  herbs  from  the 

chest.) 

Ruby :     "  'Tis  well,  mother,  dear."     (Exit  Agnes.) 
Ruby  (puts  chain  about  her  neck)  :     "See  how  it 

147 


sparkles!  Oh,  I  knew  dear  mother  was  a  lady  born; 
there  is  this  chain  and  then  one  day  I  saw  down  in  the 
bottom  of  the  chest  a  silken  robe  of  brightest  red  and 
plumed  hat.  How  I  have  longed  to  look  again — to  try 
them  on  and  play  the  lady !  I  wonder  if  'twould  be  a 
crime  for  everlasting  punishment?  I  don't  believe  'tis 
wicked  to  love  these  things — I  will  look  again — Ah! 
how  it  shines,  how  gay  it  is,  and  then  this  plume,  how 
long  and  soft!"  (Takes  out  the  things.)  "Just  for  a 
moment  I  will  don  them  both."  (Runs  out  carrying 
the  gown  and  plumed  hat.) 

(Enter  Roger.) 

Roger:  "Ruby!"  (Looks  about  him.)  "Why, 
where  can  Ruby  be !  'tis  not  her  wont  to  run  about  the 
streets.  Ah!  I  wonder  if  every  man  feels  as  I  do 
when  once  he  knows  how  sweet  a  maid  may  be!  My 
father  likes  her  not,  warned  me  that  I  must  not  see  her ; 
but  in  that  I  must  defy  him.  I  will  make  him  love  her. 
Love  is  not  sinful,  though  some  would  make  it  so.  Bye 
and  bye  'twill  be  a  sin  to  breathe  the  very  air  God  gave 
that  we  may  live.  A  man  may  not  kiss  his  wife  upon 
the  Sabbath  Day  nor  deviate  a  hair's  breadth  from 
these  stern  old  laws  my  father  and  the  rest  have  made. 
Well,  well — this  love  of  mine  may  be  of  the  Devil,  as 
my  father  says,  but  if  it  is  'tis  monstrous  sweet. 
Surely  the  evil  one  doth  tempt  me  sorely,  if  temptation 
this  be.  Waking  or  sleeping  the  sweet  face  of  Mistress 
Ruby  is  ever  before  me.  But  yesterday  I  hummed  an 
old  love  song  as  I  worked — a  sonnet  I  once  heard  Ruby 
sing  and  when  my  father  heard  it  he  turned  with  rage 
and  bade  me  sing  an  hymn  instead.  I  dare  not 
whisper  it  but  I  am  sick  to  death  of  hymns  and 
prayers.  My  soul  cries  out  for  freedom." 

(Enter  Ruby  in  silken  gown  and  plumed  hat.) 

Roger:  "Ah,  pardon  me,  my  lady,  canst  thou  tell 
me  where  to  find  Mistress  Ruby  Redmond?" 

Ruby:  "I  grant  thee  pardon,  Master  Roger  Vane. 
Here  is  Mistress  Ruby  Redmond,  an'  'tis  thy  pleasure." 


148 


Roger:  "Ruby,  thou! — and  in  such  garb — Come,  I 
pray  thee,  let  no  one  see  these  frivolous  robes  or  thou 
mayest  be  publicly  censured." 

Ruby  (coyly)  :    "Then,  thou  likest  me  not?" 

Roger :  "Thou  art  beautiful ! — and  yet — I  am  afraid 
— where  didst  thou  find  these  gewgaws?" 

Ruby:  "They  were  my  mother's  in  her  younger 
days.  Come,  Good  Master  Roger,  sit  thee  down." 
(Leads  him  to  a  bench.)  "Look  not  so  frightened. 
Last  night  thou  almost  didst  tell  me  many  things. 
Then  I  was  a  Puritan  maiden,  and  it  was  not  seemly 
to  talk  of  such  a  frivolous  and  unholy  thing  as  love. 
Today  I  am  the  daughter  of  the  Cavaliers  and  I  give 
thee  permission  to  forget  thou  art  a  timid,  bashful 
Puritan.  Thou  mayest  tell  me  all  thy  heart." 

Roger  (kneels)  :  "I  will  in  truth,  for  by  my  soul  I 
love  thee.  Let  come  what  may — let  oppose  who  will, 
dear  Ruby,  thou  art  Mistress  of  my  soul." 

Ruby:  "Thou  speakest  like  a  Cavalier.  'Tis  the 
robe  that  hath  bewitched  thee." 

Roger  (rises  and  takes  her  in  his  arms)  :  "Aye,  the 
robe  and  the  maid,  for  never  will  I  give  thee  up.  I  am 
thine  and  thou  art  mine  and  the  God  of  my  fathers 
hath  given  thee  to  me." 

(Enter  Henry  Vane — stands  at  the  door  a  moment.) 

Henry  Vane :  "So  I  find  thee — thou  child  of  Belial. 
Whence  comes  this  brazen  being  that  thou  boldest  in 
thine  arms?  Last  night  'twas  the  maiden  Ruby  that  I 
forbade  thee  to  visit." 

Ruby:    "Good  Sir,  I  am  Ruby  Redmond." 

Henry  Vane:  "Thou!  and  in  this  ungodly  frump- 
ery?  'Twas  as  I  thought.  Thou  hast  lured  my  son 
from  the  straight  and  narrow  path  with  thy  wiles.  I 
denounce  thee  as  a  witch." 

Roger:     "Father — I  implore  thee — " 

Henry:  "Say  no  more.  Tomorrow  I  will  publicly 
denounce  this  (scarlet)  maid  before  the  Judges  as  a 
witch." 

149 


Ruby:  "No,  no,  kind  Sir,  I  beg  thee  to  have  pity. 
I  know  naught  of  magic  charms  and  such  strange 
things.  "Tis  but  an  old  gown  that  once  my  mother 
wore.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Cavalier,  and  she 
gave  up  all  to  follow  my  father  to  this  land." 
(Enter  Agnes.) 

Agnes:  "Why,  what  is  this?  Ruby,  my  lamb,  and 
in  this  gown!  God  above  forgive  me  that  I  saved 
these  wicked  garments." 

Ruby  (running  to  her  mother) :  "Oh,  mother,  do 
not  let  them  take  me  from  you." 

(Enter  Patience,  Little  Mercy,  Thankful,  Charity.) 

Patience:     "What  is  all  this  clamor?" 

Henry:  "This  girl  is  a  witch.  She  hath  stolen  my 
son  from  me.  Mark  how  she  garbs  herself.  When  no 
one  is  nigh  she  doffs  the  dress  of  modesty  and  seemli- 
ness  and  wears  these  scarlet  robes.  Tomorrow  I'll  de- 
nounce her  in  the  public  hall.  She  is  a  witch,  I  say — 
a  witch." 

ALL:    "A  witch—" 

Thankful :  "Aye,  I  mind  me  now — last  week  I  saw 
her  slipping  by  my  gate  at  eventide  and  'twas  scarce 
an  hour  'ere  my  youngest  born  fell  from  the  bench  and 
broke  his  arm." 

Patience :  "  'Tis  true — and  did  not  our  brindle  cow 
die  only  yesternoon  and  that  without  a  seeming  cause. 
She  is  a  witch,  indeed." 

Charity:  "Aye,  aye,  she  hath  bewitched  us.  Hang 
her,  burn  her,  that  we  break  the  spell !" 

Ruby:  "Mother,  dearest — save  me  from  these 
creatures." 

Agnes :  "Listen  friends,  I  pray  you.  For  years  I've 
lived  amongst  you,  peaceably — working  for  you,  min- 
istering to  the  sick,  the  dying,  trying  to  do  God's  Holy 
will ;  I  implore  you,  you  accuse  not  my  child  of  these 
unholy  deeds.  I  am  indeed  punished  for  my  vanity  in 
saving  these  baubles  of  my  girlhood  days.  Tomorrow 

150 


I  will  burn  these  garments  and  will  purify  my  soul 
with  prayer." 

Henry  Vane:  "Aye,  tomorrow  we  will  burn  this 
girl  and  purify  thy  soul  and  hers  and  lift  the  spell  from 
these  our  people." 

Roger:     "Father,  thou  shalt  not — dare  not." 

Henry  Vane:  "Be  still,  irreverent  boy.  Be  glad 
thou  burn  not  with  her,  for  she  hath  drawn  her  spell 
around  thee." 

Patience:  "She  hath,  indeed.  Is  not  my  Hopeful 
of  as  pleasant  mien  and  dainty  form?  Yet  he  must 
pass  her  by  with  eyes  for  naught  but  her,  the  saucy, 
bold-faced  chit." 

Charity :    "Burn  her  as  a  witch,  I  say." 

Thankful :    "Yes,  'twill  be  doing  God's  good  work." 

Ruby:    "Mother,  dearest,  save  me." 

Agnes :  "Nay,  nay,  she  is  no  witch ;  'tis  I — I  am  the 
witch.  She's  but  a  child.  Why,  look,  good  friends, 
she  couldn't  harm  a  fly — but  I — I  go  about  amongst 
you  to  work  my  evil  will.  'Twas  I  who  killed  the 
brindle  cow.  I  broke  the  baby's  arm.  I  weave  my 
wicked  spells  about  you — I  made  this  poor  child  as- 
sume this  tawdry  finery — see  the  chain  about  her  neck. 
It  is  a  charm.  I  brew  my  herbs  and  chant  my  incanta- 
tions and  draw  unholy  spells  about  you  all.  I  am  the 
witch;  come,  take  me  now  and  you  will  break  the 
magic  charm." 

Charity:  "Yes,  yes,  she  is  a  witch — I  thought  as 
much." 

Thankful :  "I  always  feared  the  strange  glint  of  her 
eye." 

Ruby:  "No,  no,  don't  listen  to  her,  friends.  She 
tries  to  save  me.  She  is  no  witch,  but  the  dearest, 
kindest  mother  in  the  world." 

Henry  Vane:  "Nay,  nay,  'tis  not  the  mother — 'tis 
the  girl.  I  tell  you,  she  must  die." 

Roger :  "Friends,  pray  hear  what  I  say  unto  you,  I 
beg  you.  Since  boyhood  you've  known  me.  Have  I 

151 


not  tried  to  be  obedient,  dutiful  and  save  in  my  love 
for  this  girl  to  do  as  I  was  bid?  I  am  scarcely  grown 
to  man's  estate,  yet  I  can  but  see  that  you  are  narrow 
and  bigoted  in  your  beliefs.  Did  you  not  flee  from 
persecution  for  the  sake  of  the  true  religion  and  the 
right  to  worship  God  as  deemed  you  best?  Would 
you  enact  on  others  the  same  horrors  you  yourselves 
have  suffered?  You  call  this  a  land  of  freedom  and 
yet  you  torture  Quakers,  burn  old  women  and  now 
you  cry  down  a  gentle  girl,  who  never  did  you  harm. 
For  shame!  I  tell  you  all,  that  'tis  my  hope  to  make 
this  girl  my  wife,  and  if  you  bind  her  to  the  stake,  I 
will  go  with  her,  by  her  side  will  stand  and  when  she 
gives  her  spirit  up  to  God  I'll  pray  that  through  the 
whiteness  of  that  soul  mine  own  may  enter  Heaven. 
My  life  with  hers  you'll  take — if  you  demand  that  toll 
and  call  it  doing  the  will  of  the  Almighty  God." 
(Enter  Faith.) 

Faith:  "Oh,  where  is  Agnes  Redmond?"  (Runs  to 
her  and  falls  at  her  feet.)  "Thou  hast  saved  my  child. 
He  lives,  he  lives.  Oh,  forgive  me  for  ever  doubting 
thee  in  my  thought." 

Patience :    "She  is  a  witch." 

Faith  (rising)  :  "A  witch — nay,  nay,  not  so — night 
after  night  when  weary  with  her  work  she  hath  helped 
me  with  the  child  and  given  him  herbs — many  a  time 
have  I  seen  her  on  some  mercy's  errand  to  the  poor  and 
the  sick.  Forget  you  all  so  soon?  Why,  'twas  thou, 
Thankful,  that  she  nursed  through  fever's  siege — and, 
Patience,  thou  must  remember  all  her  ministration  to 
thy  Mercy  when  a  babe  in  swaddling  clothes.  She  is 
not  one  to  let  her  right  hand  know  what  does  the  left 
and  so  the  Holy  Book  commands — I  tell  you  all  she  is 
a  saint  from  Heaven." 

ALL:    "A  saint!" 

Patience:    "Aye,  aye,  mayhap,  she  be." 

Charity :  "Yes,  yes,  a  saint.  I  had  forgot  how  once 
when  lame  and  racked  with  pain,  she  came  and  built 

152 


a  fire  within  my  hut  and  brought  me  food  and  drink. 
I  had  forgot." 

Roger:  "Father,  I  pray  thee,  listen  to  the  voice  of 
reason.  Think  of  thine  own  youth,  of  thy  love  for  my 
mother.  Neighbors,  you  have  heard  what  Mistress 
Faith  hath  said  of  the  good  deeds  of  this  woman.  Not 
one  of  you  but  knows  some  kindness  from  her  gentle 
hand.  Even  on  the  cross  Christ,  the  Master,  said  of 
His  enemies,  'Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not 
what  they  do.'  Will  you  condemn  this  woman,  not 
your  enemy,  but  your  friend?  Let  us  bring  to  this 
new,  free,  beautiful  land  the  gospel  of  mercy  and  love. 
Father,  give  us  your  blessing."  (Takes  Ruby's  hand 
and  they  kneel.) 

Henry  Vane  (pauses  a  moment  as  if  struggling 
with  his  stubborn  pride — then  reaches  out  his  hand) : 
"I  will  bless  thee — Father  of  Goodness  and  Mercy — 
Have  MERCY  on  us  all."  (Curtain.) 


153 


POOR  WOMAN. 

"Pay  as  you  enter"  the  trolley  car  door 

Is  all  right  for  the  man  with  the  pockets  galore. 

But  woman,  poor  woman,  is  quite  in  a  pickle, 

When  she  has  to  fish  round  in  her  purse  for  a  nickel. 

With  arms  full  of  bundles  and  hat  on  one  ear, 

She  makes  an  appearance  that  really  is  queer 

As  she  bumps  round  the  platform  and  dives  for  her 

fare. 

Glove-buttoner,  hair  pins,  oh  everything  there 
In  that  purse  save  the  care  fare  she  longs  to  procure 
And  she  rails  at  the  nuisance,  "Please  pay  at  the  door." 


154 


MAGGIE  MCCARTHY  AND  THE  BEAUTY 
PARLOR. 

Come  in,  come  in,  Biddy  Gilhooly,  an'  you  too,  Mary 
O 'Sullivan — shure  'tis  glad  I  am  to  see  you  this  aven- 
in'.  Come  in,  no  wan's  home  an'  we'll  have  a  bit  of 
coffee  an'  some  cake.  This  is  a  dead  aisy  place.  'Tis 
a  month  I've  hod  it,  an'  the  Missus  is  forever  goin'  to 
parties  an  theayters.  Whin  I  tinks  of  how  I  used  to 
worry  wid  thim  Jones  byes  an'  do  sich  a  pile  of  wurruk 
so  many  places  'tis  amazed  at  mesilf  I  am  knowin' 
there's  places  like  this  waitin'  to  be  took.  Come  in, 
come  in.  Set  right  doon  in  the  paylor — shure  I  uses 
the  paylor  whin  the  Missus  ain't  home.  What  herself 
don't  know  won't  be  hurtin'  her.  Just  a  nice  flat  an' 
two  payple  an'  thim  away  most  all  day,  an'  (himsilf 
to  wurruk  an'  hersilf  to  play  keards  an'  to  gad)  on 
siven  dollars  a  wake.  A  snap — well  I'm  askin'  mesilf 
ivery  day — how  coom  it  my  way?  But  I  don't  git  no 
answer.  No  other  girl  to  bother  me  an'  no  washin'  an' 
plain  cookin'.  No  wonder  you  do  be  starin'  both  of 
ye.  'Tis  the  millinium  I've  heard  till  aboot.  I'm  think- 
in'.  Take  off  your  hats  an'  your  coats.  Don't  be  starin' 
so.  Phwat  the  divil  is  the  matter  wid  you?  Oh  now  I 
know.  I  clane  forgot  me  hair  an'  me  face.  Phwat  have 
I  bin  doin'?  Well,  now  ye'd  niver  guess — I've  been  to 
a  Beauty  Paylor — See  me  Syke  knot  and  me  foine 
complexion?  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  ye  all  aboot  it.  Come 
out  to  the  kitchen  wid  me  while  I  make  the  coffee. 
Well,  this  is  how  it  was.  The  Missus  is  foriver  run- 
nin'  to  have  her  face  massajid  an'  her  nails  rubbed  up 
an'  her  hair  dressed  an'  I  was  that  curus  about  them 
Beauty  places  that  I  thot  I'd  die,  yit  not  loikin'  to  go  in 
'em  feelin'  foolish  loike. 

155 


Well,  luck  was  wid  me,  for  a  day  or  two  ago  I  met 
Annie  Riordan  on  the  strate  lookin'  so  stylish  thot  I 
looked  twict  to  make  sure  'twas  her.  We  stood  talkin' 
an'  finally  I  says  "  'tis  a  lot  of  sthyle  ye're  puttin'  on 
these  days  I'm  thinkin'."  You  know  me  an'  Annie  we 
used  to  wurruk  in  the  same  place  wanst.  "  'Tis  me 
cousin  who  works  at  a  Beauty  Paylor,  an'  she  fixes 
me  up,  so  foine,"  says  she.  "I'm  dyin'  to  go  to  wan 
of  thim,"  says  I.  "Why  don't  you  go  to  see  me 
cousin,  you  know  me  cousin  Mamie?"  "Shure,"  says 
I,'  "an'  it's  nixt  Thursday  when  I'm  out  thot  I'll  call 
upon  her." 

Well  I  wint  today,  girls,  an'  O  my !  What  the  wim- 
men  won't  do  to  make  'em  beautiful!  First  I  sot  for 
a  time  waitin',  as  Mamie  was  busy,  an'  I  watched 
the  wimmen  come  in.  Some  of  'em  sot  at  little  glass 
tables  and  dipped  their  fingers  in  a  bowl  an'  had  'em 
cleaned  an'  rubbed,  an'  poked  at  'till  it  made  me  nar- 
vous  to  look  at  'em.  Thin  the  faces  on  some  of  'em, 
narvous,  wrinkled  and  homely  an'  expectin'  to  be  made 
to  look  loike  swate  sixteen.  "Is  me  dooble  chin  a  corn- 
in'  off,"  says  wan  of  thim.  An',  "I  think  me  neck  is  git- 
tin'  ploomper,"  says  another  wan  to  Mamie.  "Oh  yes," 
say/s  Mamie,  "iver  so  mooch — "  An'  'tis  to  confission 
she'll  have  to  go  fur  thot  falsehood,  fur  the  poor 
crayther's  bones  was  purty  nigh  comin'  through.  Well 
they  was  all  sorts,  gray-haired  and  dark-haired,  fot  an' 
thin,  gittin'  touched  up  an'  rubbed,  an'  dyed,  an'  what 
not  in  a  scramble  fur  beauty.  After  a  while  the  place 
begun  to  thin  out  an'  Mamie  says,  "Come  on  now, 
Maggie,  I'll  pretty  ye  up." 

So  I  sot  in  a  big  chair  an'  she  tied  a  rag  aroond  the 
head  of  me,  and  another  aroond  me  neck  an'  thin  she 
let  the  chair  back  as  though  she  was  goin'  to  pull 
me  tooth.  An'  thin  she  sailed  in.  She  greased  me, 
an'  rubbed  an'  glory  be,  she  rolled  a  buzz  saw  over 
me  face.  As  shure  as  fate,  I  thot  me  last  hour  had 
coome.  "If  you  have  a  grudge  agin  me,  Mamie  Rior- 

15G 


dan,  take  it  out  some  other  way,  or  let  me  up  where 
I  can  foight  back."  An'  she  laughed  an'  said  'twas 
all  in  the  Beauty  Game.  "Beauty  Ga"me,"  says  I,  "  'tis 
loike  wan  of  thim  futball  games  that  I've  heard  so 
much  aboot."  Thin  she  tuk  away  the  buzz  saw,  an' 
slapped  a  bilin'  hot  rag  all  over  me  face.  I  joomped 
nearly  out  of  me  chair.  "I'm  scalded  dead,"  I  hollers, 
an'  thin  she  pulls  me  back  an'  makes  me  lie  there,  an' 
pretty  soon  she  takes  off  the  hot  rag  an'  slaps  on 
wan  cold  enough  to  freeze  ye.  "If  I  have  chills  an' 
favor,  an'  lose  me  job,  I'll  sue  you,"  says  I.  "Kape 
still,"  says  she,  "you're  gittin'  a  foine  complexion." 
"A  foine  complexion!  If  I  have  a  bit  of  skin  lift  on 
me  face,  I'll  say  me  prayers  fur  joy  whin  I  gits  back 
home."  Thin  she  rubbed  me  face  again,  an'  dabbed  on 
some  powder  an'  a  bit  of  paint  an'  brushed  up  my 
eye-lashes  an'  brows,  an'  whin  I  looked  in  the  glass, 
shure  I  was  all  pink  an'  white,  an'  looked  like  a  doll. 
Thin  she  marcelled  me  hair  an'  dressed  it  up  foine. 

But  I'm  tellin'  you,  Mary  O 'Sullivan,  an'  you  too, 
Biddy  me  darlint,  'tis  no  more  Beauty  Paylor  fer  Mag- 
gie McCarthy.  I'll  comb  me  own  hair  and  wash  me 
face  in  the  bowl  instid  of  havin'  it  rubbed  off  wid  a 
buzz  saw.  Bedad,  I  may  be  a  problem,  but  I  ain't 
a  blamed  fool.  An'  now  let's  have  our  coffee  an'  cake, 
to  git  out  the  smill  of  the  coffee  before  herself  gits 
back  home. 


157 


TWO   HEADS   ARE   BETTER   THAN    ONE. 
A  Farce  in  One  Act. 


Cast  of  Characters. 

Dick  Hamilton     A  College  Boy. 

Mr.  Richard  Hamilton His  Uncle. 

Janet The  Landlady's  Daughter. 

Scene:  Interior.  Room  of  College  Boy — Pennants 
— Posters  of  Ballet  Girls — Picture  or  two — (Piano  if 
desired) — Table  with  empty  Bottle  and  Glasses — Chaf- 
ing Dish — Small  Bookcase — Easy  Chairs,  etc.  Room 
littered  up  (Ruffled  Silk  Gown  and  large  Hat  on 
chair).  A  rack  containing  a  number  of  photographs  of 
young  ladies. 


(Enter  Dick  with  letter  in  his  hand.) 

Dick :  "Great  Scott !  What  a  roast  Uncle  has  given 
me.  One  would  think  I  was  the  veriest  reprobate  on 
earth.  Just  because  a  fellow  has  a  few  spreads  and 
sows  a  few  wild  oats,  he  has  to  be  called  down  with 
this  sort  of  a  letter."  (Walks  about  excitedly.) 
(A  knock  at  the  door.) 

Dick:     "Come." 

(Enter  Janet.) 

Janet:  "A  telegram  for  you  Dick.  I've  just  been 
out  in  the  machine  with  Billy  Brown  and  I  met  the 
messenger  at  the  door." 

Dick:  "Something  else,  I  suppose."  (Takes  it — 
reads)  "Am  coming  immediately  to  investigate  mat- 
ters! Yes,  just  as  I  supposed." 

158 


Janet:  "What's  the  matter  Dick?  You  look  dis- 
consolate." 

Dick:  "So  would  you,  Janet,  if  you  had  just  re- 
ceived a  roast  like  this.  Read  this  letter." 

Janet:  Reads.  "Nephew  Dick."  (Janet)  "Humph! 
Affectionate  old  chap,  isn't  he?  (Reads)  "The  reports 
that  come  to  me  of  your  conduct  are  disgraceful.  I 
understand  that  your  associates  are  ballet  girls  and 
creatures  of  that  ilk.  That  you  turn  night  into  day 
and  make  of  your  apartments  a  resort  for  gamblers  and 
drunkards.  A  fine  return  for  my  generosity  to  you." 
(Janet  to  Dick)  "Why  Dick,  that's  the  warmest  thing 
I  ever  heard." 

Dick :  "I  should  say.  Anybody  would  think  I  was 
going  on  a  regular  toboggan  slide  down  to  the  Other 
Place.  If  I  can  believe  all  I  hear,  Uncle  had  the  rep- 
utation of  being  a  very  gay  old  boy  in  his  youth,  and 
isn't  above  a  spree  now  and  then,  but  at  present  he  has 
no  patience  with  anybody  but  a  Sunday  School  teacher. 
Of  course  he's  been  generous  to  me,  but  then  I  don't 
deserve  this  sort  of  a  calling  down.  We  do  have  a 
little  game  sometimes  and  a  spread  once  in  a  while, 
but  you  know  Janet  you're  the  only  girl  that  comes  to 
these  rooms." 

Janet :  "Yes  I  know.  By  the  way  Dick,  there  was 
more  to  the  letter."  (Reads)  "Have  decided  to  cut 
short  your  college  career,  and  unless  you  marry  Louisa 
Allen  at  once,  will  cut  you  off  without  a  penny." 
(Janet  to  Dick)  "This  Louisa  Allen,  is  she  pretty?" 

Dick:     "Pretty!     She's  a  chromo." 

Janet:     "Oh  I'm  so  glad." 

Dick:     "Glad." 

Janet:  "Er — er — I  didn't  mean  that — but  do  you 
like  her?" 

Dick :  "Like  her — I  tell  you  Janet  I  wouldn't  marry 
her  if  she  were  the  last  girl  on  earth." 

Janet:     "Oh  Dick  I  feel  so  happy." 

Dick :     "Happy— Why— " 

159 


Janet:  "Yes — You  see  I  didn't  want  you  to  be  un- 
happy, and  it  must  be  so  dreadful  to  have  to  marry 
people  who  are  chromes  and  that  you  don't  love." 

Dick:  "There's  only  one  girl  I  want  to  marry, 
Janet." 

Janet:  (Aside)  "I'm  afraid  to  ask  him.  (Aloud) 
May  I  ask  who  she  is,  Dick?" 

Dick :  "She  has  a  voice  like  music  and  her  eyes  are 
like  stars.  She  is  always  dainty  and  neat  and  she  has 
a  smile  for  everyone." 

Janet:  "Oh — what  a  charming  picture  you've 
drawn.  I  wonder  what  her  name  is." 

Dick:     "Her  name  is  Janet." 

Janet:  "Oh  do  you  mean  me — why  I'm  only  the 
daughter  of  your  landlady,  you  know, — and  we  are 
very  poor — it  is  not  at  all  wise  for  you  to  fall  in  love 
with  me." 

Dick:     "You're  the  girl  for  me,  Janet." 

Janet :  "Let's  see.  Last  year  it  was  Mabel  Jones — 
the  year  before  Daisy  Dean — and  the  year  before  that 
— "  as  Janet  talks,  Dick  looks  at  pictures  and  throws 
them  down,  one  by  one. 

Dick:  "Come,  come  don't  be  cruel.  This  time  I 
know  my  own  mind." 

Janet:  "Really  and  truly?  Well  I'm  very  happy — 
Now  if  I  were  only  in  a  story  book  or  in  a  play  Dick, 
I'd  turn  out  to  be  the  Princess  in  disguise." 

Dick:  "I  don't  want  a  princess.  I  want  you.  A 
sweet,  American  girl  is  better  than  any  princess  that 
ever  lived." 

Janet :  "Oh  Dick,  that  sounds  lovely — you  talk  just 
like  a  hero  in  a  novel.  But  your  Uncle  says  you  must 
marry  Louisa  Allen." 

Dick:    "Well,  I  won't.    He  can  keep  his  money." 

Janet :  "Maybe  we  can  persuade  him  to  change  his 
mind." 

Dick:  "Never.  You  don't  know  my  Uncle.  He's 
made  up  his  mind  I'm  a  reprobate  and  that  settles  it. 
Nothing  ever  moves  him  when  his  mind  is  made  up." 

160 


Janet :  "Dear,  dear,  if  we  could  only  think  of  some- 
thing. But  then  your  Uncle  may  come  at  any  minute. 
And  look  at  this  room."  (Runs  about  tidying  up  the 
room.) 

Dick:  "Heavens!  Let's  turn  these  posters  to  the 
wall."  (On  the  other  side  are  mottos,  "There  is  no 
place  like  home,"  "Be  good  and  you  will  be  happy," 
etc.)  (Turning  over  a  poster — reads  aloud)  "There 
is  no  place  like  home."  (He  and  Janet  laugh  merrily.) 
(Turns  over  another  poster — reads  aloud,)  "Be  good 
and  you  will  be  happy."  (Assumes  a  saintly  expres- 
sion, looks  at  Janet  and  they  both  laugh.)  (Dick  turns 
over  third  poster — the  back  is  blank.)  "What  shall 
we  do  with  this?" 

Janet:     "Why,  write  one,  Dick." 

Dick :  (Thinks  a  moment — then  writes)  "God  bless 
our  Uncle"  (repeating  as  he  writes). 

Dick:  (Seeing  the  bottles)  "Wough!  Bottles!" 
(Runs  to  table  and  throws  them  under  it,  then  goes 
back  to  couch  and  straightens  up  pillows.)  "There 
now,  that  ought  to  make  a  good  impression  on  the  old 
gentleman." 

Janet:  "I  should  say  so." — "Oh  Dick — I  have  an 
idea.  Here  is  that  red  gown  you  wore  in  the  college 
play.  Well  run  away  and  put  this  on  and  we  will  see 
if  we  cannot  make  your  Uncle  come  to  terms." 

Dick:     "But  my  Uncle  loathes  private  theatricals." 

Janet:  "Oh!  but  you  are  to  be  Birdie  Highflyer  of 
the  Boston  Kickers  Company,  just  as  you  were  in  the 
play.  You  come  in  and  make  real  love  to  him.  He 
will  never  know  you." 

Dick :     "Janet,  you're  a  jewel.     I'll  try  it." 

(Exit  Dick.) 

Janet:  "And  to  think  that  Dick  loves  me.  Well 
I'd  do  anything  to  keep  him  from  marrying  that  Louisa 
Allen.  When  that  Uncle  of  his  comes  I'll  pretend  to 
be  the  maid.  All's  fair  in  love  and  war  they  say." 
(Janet  sings — at  close  of  song  and  dance,  she  says,) 

161 


"Now  for  my  part  of  the  maid."  (Takes  off  hat,  veil 
and  auto  coat,  humming  the  air  of  her  song  as  she 
does  so. — Looks  about — takes  little  white  bow  from  her 
neck  and  pins  upon  her  hair,  then  looks  about — 
catches  up  tidy  from  chair  and  puts  over  her  dress  for 
an  apron.  Then  music  starts  up  and  she  does  her 
dance. 

(Enter  Mr.  Richard  Hamilton.  Janet  is  dancing 
about.) 

Uncle  Richard  (severely) :  "Young  woman,  who 
are  you?" 

Janet:    "Why — I — er — I — I  am  only  the  maid,  sir." 

Uncle  Richard:  "And  is  this  the  way  the  maids 
perform  in  my  nephew's  room?  Just  as  I  thought. 
This  room  is  a  den  of  iniquity."  (Goes  about.) 

Janet:  "Oh,  I'm  sure  you  wrong  your  nephew,  sir. 
He  seems  like  a  very  well  behaved  young  man.  I  am 
sure  this  is  a  very  proper  room,  sir.  See  all  his  books 
and  his  mandolin,  and  those  lovely  mottoes  on  the 
wall—" 

Uncle  R.:  (Adjusts  his  glasses — reads)  "Um,  'Be 
good  and  you  will  be  happy.'  Well,  that  doesn't  sound 
so  bad"  (reads)  "There  is  no  place  like  home." 

Janet :  "Now  that  doesn't  sound  very  wicked,  does 
it,  sir?  There  is  one  about  you  sir — see."  (Reads) 
"God  bless  our  Uncle." 

Uncle  R. :  "Humph !  Well  maybe  I've  been  a  little 
hard  on  him."  (Starts  to  turn  over  the  posters.) 

Janet :  "Oh  don't  turn  that  over  sir — no — er — dusty 
— on  the  back.  I  forgot  to  dust  it  this  morning,  sir." 

Uncle  R. :  (Turns  it  over  displaying  the  gay  poster 
of  an  actress  in  tights)  (Angrily)  "God  Bless  our 
Uncle" — eh — let's  see  the  rest  of  these  choice  mottoes 
(turns  them  over  one  by  one.)  "They're  all  dusty  on 
the  back  are  they?  Proper  young  man  eh?  Loves  his 
Uncle  so  much  does  he?  Would  a  proper  young  man 
have  creatures  like  these  in  his  room?  I'll  tell  you 
my  money  will  not  support  such  folly  and  dissipation 

162 


(strikes  hand  on  the  table  scattering  deck  of  cards. 
Picks  up  cards).  Ah-ha  gambling  implements — Nice, 
well-behaved  young  man,  eh?  (Foot  strikes  bottles 
under  the  table)  What's  this,  bottles?  Wine  suppers 
to  those  creatures  on  the  wall.  Where  is  my  nephew?" 

Janet:  "Please  sir,  he  went  out.  I'll  see  if  I  can 
find  him.  I  think  he  expected  you." 

(Exit  Janet.) 

Uncle  R.:  "Expected  me?  Evidently.  When  he 
tried  to  hide  the  traces  of  his  revels.  A  fine  channel 
for  my  hard  earned  dollars.  (Walks  about  excitedly) 
I've  no  patience  with  such  nonsense." 

(Enter  Dick  attired  in  a  gay,  muchly  beruffled  cos- 
tume, hat  and  blonde  wig.  Made  up  like  a  woman.) 
(Dick  trips  up  to  his  Uncle  and  slaps  him  on  the  back.) 

Dick:  "Dickie,  old  boy,  how  are  you?  I've  just 
come  over  from  the  rehearsal  at  the  Pickaboo." 

Uncle  R. :     "Young  woman,  how  dare  you?" 

Dick:  (Leans  against  his  Uncle).  "Come  old  fel — 
got  a  grouch,  honey?  There  now,  does  its  head  ache 
Dickie-bird?" 

Uncle  R. :  "This  is  not  your  Dickey-bird.  I  am 
Richard  Hamilton,  Esq.  Unfortunately  an  uncle  of 
your  Dickey-bird  as  you  call  him." 

Dick:     "Come  off,  none  of  your  joshing." 

Uncle  R. :     (Explosively)  "Young  woman,  I — I — " 

Dick:  (Looking  at  him)  "Well  it  ain't  Dickey  after 
all.  You  don't  mean  tp  say  you're  Dick's  uncle — I 
wouldn't  believe  you  in  a  thousand  years.  You  look 
too  young." 

Uncle  R. :  "Ahem !  Yes  er — well  I  was  his  father's 
younger  brother,  much  younger." 

Dick:  "Well  I  guess  yes.  No  wonder  Dick  doesn't 
say  much  to  us  girls  about  you." 

Uncle  R. :     "Doesn't  say  much  about  me  eh?" 

Dick:  "Why  no.  You'd  be  a  dangerous  rival. 
Why  Dick's  only  a  kid  and  do  you  suppose  the  girls 
would  look  at  him  if  you  were  around?  Not  on  your 
tintype." 

163 


Uncle  R. :  "Well  I  used  to  be  quite  a  lad — quite  a 
lad,  girlie— er  I  mean  young  woman.  I  don't  approve 
of  creatures  of  your  sort." 

Dick :  "Of  course  you  don't  approve  of  us,  but  then 
you  like  us  now  don't  you?"  (Chucks  him  under  the 
chin)  "A  man  with  handsome  eyes  like  yours  knows 
something  about  flirting,  eh?" 

Uncle  R. :  (Chuckling)  "Well  I  used  to  be  quite  a 
lad—" 

Dick:  "Used  to  be — come — come — you're  just  in 
your  prime.  You  can't  fool  me  tootsey — " 

Uncle  R. :  (Immensely  pleased)  "She  called  me 
tootsey — why — " 

Dick:  "You're  a  regular  terror  with  the  ladies  dar- 
ling— now  ain't  you?"  (Pokes  him  in  the  ribs,  giggles 
and  leans  against  him.) 

Uncle  R. :  (Chuckles  and  puts  his  arm  around  Dick) 
"You're  a  very  charming  girl — Miss — a — " 

Dick:     "Birdie  Highflyer." 

Uncle  R.:     "Birdie — That's  a  sweet  name." 

Dick:     "And  your  name  darling,  is  it  Dickie,  too?" 

Uncle  R. :    "My  name  is  Richard,  little  girl — " 

Dick:  "Richard.  That  is  too  old  and  sober — I  am 
going  to  call  you  tootsey — Say  I've  got  an  awful  thirst 
Tootsey.  Let's  have  some  Scotch.  I  know  where  it 
is." 

Uncle  R. :  "Er — er  little  one — my  nephew  Dick 
might  come." 

Dick:  (Aside)  "Foxy  old  duck.  All  he's  afraid 
of  is  being  caught.  Don't  you  worry,  you'll  hear  Dickie 
Junior  long  before  he  comes.  He's  a  sad  dog,  Dickie 
is,  and  will  probably  be  so  drunk  he  won't  know  you." 

(Dick  sits  on  couch  beside  his  uncle.) 

Dick:  "Say,  your  hair  curls,  don't  it?  How  cute!" 
(Runs  hands  through  uncle's  hair.) 

Uncle  R.:     "Um — do  that  again." 

Dick:  (Takes  out  cigarette  case)  "Smoke,  Toot- 
sey?" 

164 


Uncle  R. :  "No,  not  now,  my  Doctor  said  I  must 
quit." 

Dick:  Quit!  As  young  as  you  are.  Come,  have 
a  smoke,  shall  we?  (Lights  cigarette)  "Now,  I'll  take 
a  puff,  dearie"  (puffs)  "Then  you  take  a  puff."  (Puts 
cigarette  in  uncle's  mouth)  "Then  I'll  take  a  puff,  then 
you  take  a  puff.  Isn't  that  nice,  Tootsey?  (Drops 
head  on  Uncle's  shoulder)  "Ah,  those  kids  may  do 
for  some  girls,  but  they  are  so  silly." 

Uncle  R. :  (Smiling  foolishly  and  putting  his  arm 
around  her)  "I  see  you  are  a  young  lady  of  great  judg- 
ment, Birdie  Darling.  Let  me  hold  these  dear  little 
hands.  Where  do  you  dance?  "Didn't  you  say  you 
were  an  actress?" 

Dick :  "You  can  find  me  any  day  by  waiting  at  the 
stage  entrance  of  the  "Peek-a-boo  theatre.  I  do  the 
high  kick  act." 

Uncle  R. :  "Er — er,  little  girl  would  you  mind  show- 
ing me?" 

Dick:  (Aside)  "The  old  reprobate."  (Jumps  up 
and  begins  to  dance.) 

Uncle  R.:     (Keeping  time)  "Great!     Great!" 

Dick :  "Come  on  old  boy,  join  me.  I  bet  you  could 
do  this." 

Uncle  R. :  (Jumps  up  and  starts  to  dance  and  kick 
— his  rheumatism  catching  him  now  and  then.) 

Dick:  "Go  on — go  on,  Tootsey,  old  chap — you  can 
beat  the  kids  all  hollow." 

(Enter  Janet.  Stands  back  of  stage  laughing,  then 
comes  forward.) 

Janet:  (Coming  forward)  "Well!  This  is  a  nice 
performance  for  an  old  man  like  you — coming  here 
calling  yourself  Mr.  Dick's  uncle  and  bringing  this 
brazen  creature.  I'll  tell  Mr.  Dick  the  minute  he 
comes  home." 

Uncle  R. :     "I  didn't  bring  this  young  person." 

Dick:     "Young  person,  indeed!     Old  mossback." 

Uncle  R. :  (Angrily)  "Old  mossback — How  dare 
you." 

165 


Janet:  "You'd  better  leave  the  place  before  Mr. 
Dick  comes." 

Dick:  "Oh  slush  Miss  Prim.  I'm  sure  I've  no 
wish  to  stay."  (To  Uncle  R.)  "Ta-ta  old  dovie." 

(Exit  Dick.) 

Janet :    "A  nice  kind  of  an  uncle — you  are." 

Uncle  R. :     "But  my  dear  young  lady." 

Janet:    "Don't  my  dear  young  lady  me." 

Uncle  R. :  "That's  one  of  my  nephew's  friends — I 
didn't  bring  her  here." 

Janet :  "Don't  try  to  hoodwink  me.  I  guess  I  know 
Mr.  Dick's  friends,  and  a  nice  quiet-spoken,  well  be- 
haved lot  of  young  men  they  are  too." 

Uncle  R. :  "That  young  lady  told  me  she  was  a 
friend  of  my  nephew's.  I  was  remonstrating  with  her 
on  her  mode  of  dancing." 

Janet:  "Remonstrating — An  excellent  way  to  give 
fatherly  advice.  Kicking  your  heels  in  the  air — you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  at  your  age." 

Uncle  R. :  "At  my  age — I  tell  you  I'm  not  so  very 
old." 

Janet:  "You  are  old  enough.  Just  wait  until  Mr. 
Dick  comes." 

Uncle  R. :  "Where  are  my  hat  and  stick?  I  must  be 
going.  I  have  an  appointment  right  away." 

Janet:  "With  another  actress,  I  suppose.  So  you 
are  the  uncle  who  made  Dick  feel  so  bad  when  he  re- 
ceived that  dreadful  letter.  A  fine  guardian  you  are 
for  a  young  man." 

Uncle  R. :     "Er — young  lady — " 

Janet:     "My  name  is  Janet." 

Uncle  R.:  (Taking  a  $5.00  bill  from  his  pocket) 
"Janet,  don't  you  like  candy?" 

Janet:  "You  cannot  bribe  me,  sir.  I  am  neither  a 
railway  president  nor  a  city  alderman." 

Uncle  R. :  (Taking  out  ten  more)  "You  are  a  very 
pretty  girl,  do  you  know  it?  Maybe  you  need  a  new 
dress." 

106 


Janet :    "I  have  all  the  clothes  I  wish,  thank  you." 

Uncle  R. :  (Taking  out  ten  more)  "Or  some  nice 
furs.  It  is  going  to  be  a  very  cold  winter,  they  say." 

Janet :  "It  will  be  warm  .enough  for  you  when  Mr. 
Dick  finds  out  what  sort  of  an  uncle  he  has." 

Uncle  R. :  "Come,  come,  my  girl,  don't  be  hard  on 
me.  What  will  you  take  to  keep  this  little  matter  from 
my  nephew?" 

Janet:  "I'll  tell  you.  Poor  Dick  was  heart-broken 
over  your  letter.  Will  you  promise  not  to  disinherit 
him?" 

Uncle  R.:  "Yes,  yes.    I'll  promise." 

Janet:  "And  you  will  let  him  marry  any  one  he 
wants  to  marry?" 

Uncle  R. :    "Yes,  yes,  I'll  promise  anything." 
(Enter  Dick  in  propria  persona.) 

Dick:  "Why,  hello,  Uncle  Richard.  Awful  glad  to 
see  you.  When  did  you  get  here?  Hope  I  haven't  kept 
you  long." 

Uncle  R. :  "No,  no,  I've  been  looking  about.  I 
really  er — didn't  have  time  to  miss  you." 

Dick :  "Say,  Uncle,  I  was  awfully  cut  up  about  your 
letter." 

Uncle  R.:  "Forget  it,  my  dear  nephew,  forget  it. 
Tell  the  truth  I  wasn't  feeling  well  when  I  wrote  that 
letter." 

Dick :    "I  confess  I've  been  a  little  wild." 

Uncle  R. :  "Never  mind,  my  dear  boy.  Why  every 
chap  must  sow  a  few  wild  oats,  and  Dick,  my  lad,  I've 
decided  to  leave  you  all  my  money." 

Dick :     "Oh,  Uncle,  how  generous." 

Uncle  R. :  "Yes,  yes,  my  lad,  and  I've  decided  you 
needn't  marry  Louisa  Allen.  Pick  your  own  wife, 
Dick.  That's  the  only  way  to  be  happy." 

Dick:  (clasping  his  hand)  "Uncle,  you  are  a  brick. 
Well,  then  if  I  may  pick  my  own  wife  there's  just  one 
girl  for  me."  (Calls  Janet.) 

Janet:     "Yes,  Dick." 

167 


Dick:  "Uncle,  here's  the  dearest  little  girl  in  the 
world." 

Uncle  R:     "That's  the  Maid." 

Dick:    "No,  my  landlady's  daughter." 

Uncle  R. :  (Aside)  "The  sly  minx.  I  bet  she  knew 
he  was  in  love  with  her."  (Aloud)  "And  a  very  pretty 
young  miss  she  is,  too.  May  I  kiss  my  new  niece  that 
is  to  be?"  (Kisses  her.)  "There,  now  I  guess  we  un- 
derstand each  other." 

Janet :  "Oh,  I  am  quite  sure  we  all  understand  one 
another  very  well."  (Goes  to  Dick)  "And  I'll  accept 
your  offer,  Dick,  because  you  know  'Two  Heads  are 
better  than  one.' " 


THE  WIDOW  FLIGHTLY'S  GOOD-BYE  CALL. 

How  are  you,  dear?  Viola  and  I  just  ran  in  a  mo- 
ment to  say  good-bye  to  you  and  Lois  before  we  go. 
When  are  we  going?  Thursday.  Isn't  it  warm  to- 
day? It  makes  me  long  for  the  country  and  to  get 
away  from  the  hot,  dusty  town. 

Where  are  you  and  Lois  going  this  summer? 
What's  that?  You  haven't  thought  of  it?  May  not  go 
away  at  all?  Why,  my  dear,  I've  been  getting  ready 
for  some  time.  We  are  going  to  the  seashore — and 
one  has  to  be  rather  dressy  there,  you  know.  I  have 
twenty  new  gowns,  I  think — twenty-four  isn't  it,  Viola 
love?  What  did  you  say?  Two  a  day  for  two  weeks? 
And  then  we'll  go  to  another  resort?  What  an  absurd 
child.  Why  should  I  do  that?  So  that  I  won't  have 
to  wear  the  same  gown  twice  at  one  resort?  Now 
that  will  do,  that  sounds  impertinent.  You  are  too 
precocious  entirely  for  a  girl  of  your  age.  When  you 
are  older  I  hope  you  will  have  more  sense — never  mind 
about  your  age.  What  did  you  say?  Mrs.  Maxwell 
said  I  kept  you  in  short  clothes  to  make  myself  look 
younger?  Well,  Mrs.  Maxwell  is  a  jealous,  disagree- 
able creature.  What?  Said  that  you  wouldn't  have  a 
chance  to  be  a  young  lady  until  I  was  married  a  sec- 
ond time?  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more — I  came  to 
call  upon  Mrs.  Stewart  and  I  don't  care  to  hear  Mrs. 
Maxwell's  wretched  gossip. 

Now,  really,  my  dear  Mrs.  Stewart,  you  can't  mean 
what  you  say — that  you  may  not  go  away  at  all  ?  Why, 
no  one  ever  stays  in  town  in  summer  but  grocers' 
clerks  and  people  who  live  in  flats.  What's  that, 
Viola?  We  live  in  a  flat?  Never  let  me  hear  you  say 
that  again — we  live  in  an  apartment.  But,  my  dear 

169 


Mrs.  Stewart,  surely  you  are  not  going  to  remain  in 
town  during  the  hot  weather?  Why,  I  do  hope,  dear, 
the  talk  I've  heard  isn't  true.  Oh,  never  mind  what  it 
is,  just  foolish  rumor — why  nothing,  really.  Just  that 
— you  won't  mind?  Well,  that  Mr.  Stewart  had  lost 
money  in  a  mining  venture.  Of  course  I  knew  it 
wasn't  true.  Why,  Viola,  child,  how  can  you  say 
that?  That  I  said  I  thought  it  was  true  and  I  came 
over  to  find  out?  What  foolishness — I  wish  you  to 
stop  talking — let  older  people  talk,  young  persons 
should  listen.  What  did  you  say,  Mrs.  Stewart?  One 
is  better  off  at  home — well  cooked  food  and  comfort- 
able beds?  But,  my  dear,  think  how  people  will  talk. 
Why,  they  may  say  you  have  really  lost  money. 
People  talk  at  a  summer  resort?  Sit  on  the  veranda 
and  gossip  all  day?  Be  quiet,  Viola.  Criticise  the 
women's  clothes,  and  wonder  if  people  are  somebodies 
or  just  pretenders?  Where  do  you  get  your  precocious 
ideas  from?  Get  angry  with  the  woman  who  corrals 
the  only  man?  Why,  I  never  heard  such  talk  in  my 
life.  For  a  girl  of  sixteen  you  are  entirely  too  know- 
ing— Heavens,  don't  let  me  hear  you  say  that  again, 
Viola.  I  feel  faint.  How  dare  Mrs.  Maxwell  say  that 
you  were  twenty?  Give  me  my  smelling  salts  quick. 
Don't  give  me  a  shock  like  that  again— of  course  I'm 
not  fifty.  Really,  Viola  is  getting  so  rude  that  the  only 
comfort  I  have  is  in  Midget.  Isn't  she  a  darling  little 
dog,  Mrs.  Stewart?  Look  at  those  pink  ears — blessed 
own  sweetness.  Mrs.  Maxwell  said  I  acted  like  a  fool 
over  the  dog?  How  many  times  have  I  told  you  not 
to  repeat  what  Mrs.  Maxwell  says?  I  don't  care  if  she 
did  say  you  had  no  chance  when  I  was  around.  I  be- 
lieve in  keeping  a  child  a  child.  Well,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Stewart,  we  must  be  going — we'll  probably  run  in  be- 
fore we  go  away,  if  we  have  a  chance.  I'll  write  when 
we  are  located  and  let  you  know  what  a  lovely  cool 
place  we  have  secured. 

Do  you  know,  dearie,  I  am  almost  inclined  to  envy 

170 


y*ou?  Your  beds  will  be  so  much  more  comfortable 
and  your  table  better.  Of  course,  when  it's  very  hot 
you  will  have  to  stay  indoors  and  the  city  is  wretchedly 
desolate  when  everybody  who  is  anybody  is  out  of 
town.  Really,  you  know,  my  dear,  I  imagine  it  would 
be  quite  a  novel  experience  staying  in  town  in  sum- 
mer. And  then  it  isn't  as  though  you  were  compelled 
to,  because  you  couldn't  afford  it.  I'm  so  glad  that 
rumor  isn't  true.  You  look  a  little  pale,  love,  really, 
you  ought  to  get  out  into  the  fresh  air.  Come,  Viola, 
and  Midgy,  mamma's  little  tootsy-wootsy  of  a  doggie. 
Does  it  want  to  go?  Good-bye,  dear,  and  you,  dear 
Lois. 

I  hope  it  won't  be  too  hot  this  summer.  I'll  write — 
and  I'm  so  glad  those  rumors  aren't  true.  Come 
tootsy.  Look  at  the  little  love,  she  really  knows  every 
word  I  say,  the  lamb !  Good-bye.  Well,  now  that  the 
door  is  closed  on  those  people,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing, 
Viola.  That  rumor  is  perfectly  true  and  I  know  it. 
Home,  John. 


171 


"MAMMY  LIZA." 
A  Play  in  One  Act. 

Cast  of  Characters: 

Miss  Elizabeth 

Little  Blanche 

Ralph 

Mammy  Liza 

Scene — Out  of  doors — A  summer  garden — At  the 
left  an  old  southern  home  with  vine-covered  porch — 
Mammy  Liza  sits  on  a  garden  bench  busily  engaged 
in  chopping  cabbage  in  a  large  wooden  bowl.  Blanche, 
a  little  girl,  daintily  clad  in  white,  sits  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet,  dressing  a  large  doll. 

Mammy  Liza  (singing  at  rise  of  the  curtain) : 

"Come,  sinner,  come,  an'  heah  yo'  doom, 
The  Devil's  gwine  to  kotch  yo." 

Blanche:    "What  are  you  making,  Mammy  Liza?" 

Mammy  Liza:  "Col'  slaw,  lamb.  We's  gwine  to 
have  it  fur  supper.  Bet  yo  can't  guess  what  else  we's 
gwine  have." 

Blanche:  "Urn — let's  see — some — oh — some  nice, 
hot  cinmun  rolls." 

Mammy  Liza :  "Now,  if  yo  ain't  the  smartes'  chile. 
How  yo'  guess  dat?" 

Blanche  (looking  up  archly) :  "Cause  we  have  'em 
every  night,  Mammy  Liza." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Dat's  so,  Baby  Lamb — My,  how 
much  yo'  looks  like  yo'  ma — acts  jes'  like  her,  too — Do 
yo'  know,  honey,  it  jes'  seems  like  the  years  had  done 
rolled  back  and  yo'  ma  was  settin'  there  stid  of  you — 

172 


she  was  the  sweetes',  danties'  bit  of  a  slip  of  a  gal'  jes' 
like  yo'  is  fer  all  de  worl' — Same  name,  too,  name  of 
Blanche — Yo'  know  yo'  Gran'ma  she  died  and  lef  yo' 
to  the  care  of  yo'  aunt,  Miss  'Lizabeth — Well,  Miss 
'Lizabeth — she  wa'n  no  more'n  fo'  years  older'n  yo'  ma 
but  she  jes'  keered  fur  her  like  a  mother  and  when  yo' 
pa  married  yo'  ma  Miss  'Lizabeth's  heart  was  mos' 
busted  and  then  yo'  ma  died,  and  Miss  'Lizabeth  she's 
had  yo'  ever  since  and  yo'  pa's  been  traveling  round,  so 
it  seems  like  we  was  jes'  whar  we  started  'cept  Miss 
"Lizabeth  she's  older  and  quieter  like — " 

Blanche :    "Mammy,  dear,  don't  forget  the  story." 
Mammy:     "I  was  jes'  a — reministincin' — guess  I'm 
gettin'  old — when  folks  gits  old  they  allus  reministinces 
in  the  past.    Did  yo'  never  hear  'bout  how  the  folks  all 
got  white?" 

Blanche :  "Well,  I've  most  forgot  it — tell  it  again." 
Mammy:  "Well,  all  de  folkses  in  dis  worl'  was 
black  once.  Adam  he  was  black  and  Eve  she  was 
black  and  Abraham  he  was  black  and  Rachel  and  Re- 
becca and  Noah  and  all  his  folks  was  black.  Well,  de 
Lawd  He  say  to  Moses — Ef  yo'  folks  down  dere  want's 
to  git  white,  why  yo'  jes'  go  to  a  certain  brook  and  yo' 
wash  and  yo'll  git  white  as  snow.  Well,  when  Moses 
done  tole  de  folks  dat  dey  all  went  runnin"  lickety  split 
to  de  brook  and  de  first  ones  dat  got  dar  dey  plunged  in 
and  come  out  all  white — well,  de  next  set  dat  was  come 
all  found  de  water  a  little  muddey,  so  when  dey  wash 
dey  come  out  pale  yellow — and  de  third  lot  dey  found 
de  water  still  dirtier  and  kin'  of  muddle  up  and  muddy 
from  the  tramp  of  so  many  feet,  so  dey  was  only  a  kind 
of  a  pretty  brown  when  dey  come  out — well,  de  last 
folks  dat  come  dey  found  de  brook  so  muddled  up  dat  it 
want  more'n  a  dirty  streak  of  water  and  dey  only  had  a 
chance  to  wash  de  soles  oj:  dere  foots  and  de  palms  of 
dere  hands,  so  dat's  de  reason  dat  black  fokes  allus  has 
light  palms  and  soles."* 

*A  Negro   Leg-end. 

173 


Blanche  (jumping  up  and  throwing  her  arms  around 
Mammy  Liza) :  "Oh,  mammy,  I'm  so  glad  you 
couldn't  get  washed,  because  I  like  you  better  just  as 
you  are." 

Mammy :    "Jes'  hear  dat  chile.    Bless  yo'  little  soul." 

(Enter  Elizabeth,  carrying  a  basket  and  a  pair  of 
shears.) 

Elizabeth:    "What — more  stories?" 

Mammy:  "Lord,  yes,  honey — I  done  used  up  mos' 
all  de  dictionary  today  tellin'  stories." 

Blanche :  "Oh,  aunty,  dear,  let  me  go  cut  the  flowers 
for  the  table"  (runs  to  her  aunt). 

Elizabeth:    "You  won't  snip  your  fingers?" 

Blanche :    "Not  a  tiny  snip." 

Elizabeth:     "Look  out  for  the  thorns,  dear." 

Blanche:    "Yes,  aunty." 

(Exit  Blanche,  skipping  and  singing.) 

Mammy:  "Lord,  honey,  ain't  dat  chile  de  sweetes' 
thing?" 

Elizabeth:  "What  would  I  do  without  her, 
mammy?  Sometimes  I'm  afraid — " 

Mammy:    "What  yo'  afeard  of,  honey?" 

Elizabeth :  "I'm  afraid  of  the  time  when  I  may  have 
— will  have  to  give  her  up.  Oh,  mammy,  it  seems  as 
though  I  could  never  live  if  she  were  taken  from  me." 
(Goes  to  mammy  and  puts  her  head  in  her  lap.) 

Mammy :  "There,  there,  honey,  don't  yo'  git  panicky 
— I've  been  kin'  of  panicky  myself  all  day — seemed  like 
somethin'  was  goin'  to  happen — kase  I  heard  a  blue 
jay  this  mornin'  when  I  got  up  and  you  know  all  de 
blue  jays  goes  to  hell  every  Thursday  night  and  don't 
git  round  agin  till  de  next  Monday.  I  say,  'Um-humph, 
Mr.  Blue  Jay,  yo'  ain't  round  fur  no  good — it's  bad 
luck/  " 

Elizabeth:  "Oh,  I  don't  mind  about  the  blue  jay, 
mammy,  dear.  I'm  not  superstitious  but  somehow  my 
heart  feels  heavy — I  don't  believe  I  could  bear  to  lose 
Blanche.  You  know  how  much  I  loved  the  other 

174 


Blanche  and  when  she  married  and  went  away — well. 
I  dare  not  think  of  the  time — I  spent  so  many,  many 
lonely  hours." 

Mammy :  "Do  you  know,  honey,  dat  I  used  to  think 
dat  yo'  and  Mars  Ralph  was  in  love  with  each  other?" 

Elizabeth  (rising)  :  "Why,  mammy,  what  made  you 
think  that?" 

Mammy:  "Well,  it  used  to  'pear  like  yo'  all  was 
kind  of  thick  and  fus'  thing  I  knowed  Mars  Ralph  went 
away  and  when  he  come  back  Miss  Blanche  she  had 
growed  up  and  yo'  all  didn't  seem  so  thick — the  fus' 
thing  I  knowed  Miss  Blanche  and  Mars  Ralph  was 
married  and  went  away." 

Elizabeth:  "Yes,  it  was  better  so — Blanche  was 
such  a  gentle  soul — she  loved  Ralph  with  all  her  heart 
and  her  little  one  is  mine  now — just  like  my  own." 

Mammy :  "Pears  kin'  of  queer  like  honey  dat  you 
ain't  never  married — Dere  was  several  would  liked  to 
had  yo'." 

Elizabeth:     "I  shall  never  marry,  mammy  dear." 

Mammy:  "Well,  I  dunno,  but  it's  jes'  as  well. 
Marryin'  ain't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be.  Now  I've 
had  fo'  husbands  and  dey  want  none  of  'em  no  'count — 
shif'less — whew! — I  think  de  wust  one  was  Abraham 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  Washington — lazy ! — Lawd — he 
was  too  lazy  to  lif  his  feet.  De  only  reason  I  married 
him  was  'cause  I  liked  his  name — Mrs.  Abraham  Napo- 
leon Bonaparte  Washington — it  used  to  make  me  feel 
kin'  of  sot  up.  He  used  to  wait  on  table  when  yo'  all 
was  little — 'member  him?  And  sure's  fate  he'd  go  to 
sleep  shooin'  flies  and  flop  de  fly  bresh  in  everybody's 
face — Well  old  Marster  says  to  him  one  day,  'Here  yo' 
Abraham  yo'  rascal — yo'  go  to  yo'  cabin  and  go  to  sleep 
and  don't  yo'  git  up  'till  yo'  gets  your  sleep  through' — • 
and  Abraham  he  goes  to  the  cabin  and  he  sleeps  three 
days  and  three  nights,  and  when  he  come  back  yo' 
think  dat  nigger  didn't  fall  'sleep  jes'  de  same  as  ever 
'round  de  table?" 

175 


(Enter  Blanche  with  a  basket  of  flowers — runs  to 
aunt) . 

Blanche:  "Aunty  dear,  here  are  all  the  flowers  for 
the  tables,  and  I've  picked  a  lot  of  daisies  to  make  a 
daisy  crown — Sit  down  now  and  I  am  going  to  crown 
you  Queen  of  the  Springtime  and  Mammy  I'll  crown 
Queen  of  the  May."  (Pulls  her  aunt  down  upon  the 
ground). 

Mammy  (laughing  heartily) :  "Lord  honey — what 
yo'  'spose  I'd  look  like — Queen  of  May — I'll  bust  my 
sides  laughing  at  dat  child — I  must  go  and  see  'bout 
supper — Whoopee !  I've  been  foolin'  long  enough." 

(Exit)     (singing). 

"Come,  sinner,  come  and  heah  yo'  doom, 
De  devil's  gwine  to  cotch  yo' — 
Dey  say  in  hell  there's  lots  of  room 
Ain't  yo'  sorry  dat  he's  got  yo'  ?  " 

Blanche  (decorating  her  aunt)  :  "Oh  Aunty  dear, 
how  darling  you  look"  (dances  about  her).  "Now 
you  are  the  Queen  and  I  am  your  subject  (kneels). 
Oh  dear  sweet  beautiful  Queen  grant  my  request." 

Elizabeth:  "Even  to  the  half  of  my  kingdom,  dear 
heart." 

Blanche  (rising) :  "Then  don't  ever  let  me  go 
away  from  you." 

Elizabeth  (rising) :  "Why,  precious  pet,  what 
makes  you  talk  so— of  course  I  won't  let  you  go  away." 
(Embraces  Blanche.) 

(Enter  Ralph — wearing  a  long  travelling  ulster  and 
cap  and  carrying  suit  case.) 

Ralph :  "I  am  sure  I  have  come  right  into  the  court 
of  the  Queen  of  May — " 

Elizabeth :  "Ralph — I  did  not  dream  you  were  any- 
where near — when  did  you  return — why  did  you  not 
write?"  (pulls  the  wreath  from  her  head). 

Ralph:  "I  wanted  to  surprise  you — and  Blanche, 
my  darling,  don't  you  know  me?" 

1TG 


Blanche  (running  to  him)  :  "Of  course  I  do,  papa 
dearest."  (Ralph  takes  Blanche  in  his  arms.) 

Elizabeth:     "And  how  brown  you  have  grown." 

Ralph:  "Well  three  years'  travel  bronzes  a  man's 
face — three  years  is  a  long  time." 

Elizabeth  (slowly)  :  "Yes,  three  years  is  a  long 
time." 

Blanche:  "Papa  dear,  it's  been  so  long  that  I 
thought  you  had  quite  forgotten  me." 

Ralph  (taking  off  coat  and  sitting  down) :  "I 
could  never  forget  my  little  daughter.  I've  been 
travelling  in  so  many  lands,  and  oh  I  have  so  much  to 
tell  you." 

Blanche  (sitting  in  his  lap)  :  "And  have  you  seen 
giants  and  ogres  and  fairies?" 

Elizabeth  (seated  in  garden  chair)  :  "Oh  dear  me, 
I  can  see  the  effects  of  mammy's  wild  tales"  (arranges 
the  flowers  for  the  table  as  she  talks). 

Ralph:  "No,  I  haven't  seen  giants  and  ogres,  etc., 
but  I've  seen  things  just  as  wonderful — queer  almond 
eyed  Chinese  and  Indian  jugglers,  white  elephants, 
and,  oh  dear,  it  would  take  too  long  to  tell  all  in  a  min- 
ute." 

Blanche:  "And  papa  I  have  lots  to  tell  you  too — 
I  have  the  darlingest  white  kitten." 

Ralph:     "Just  like  yourself — sweetheart." 

Blanche:  "And  I  have  five  new  dolls — (runs  and 
gets  her  doll) .  This  is  my  bestest  and  I  call  her  Eliza- 
beth Ralph  Mammy  "Liza" 

Ralph :     "Is  not  that  a  remarkable  name  ?" 

Elizabeth:  "Blanche's  dolls  have  most  original 
names." 

Blanche :  "She  is  very  smart  too — she  can  read  and 
write  and  count  way  up  to  one  hundred." 

Ralph:  "Well,  well — a  most  accomplished  dolly — 
that  will  be  quite  a  family  to  begin  housekeeping  with, 
for  now  I  am  going  to  settle  down  and  be  a  regular 
family  man  and  you  and  I  and  the  dolls  will  keep 
house." 

177 


Blanche:     "And  Aunt  Elizabeth." 

Ralph :  "Ah — but  Aunt  Elizabeth  has  been  bothered 
with  the  care  of  a  little  girl  long  enough  and  so  I  am 
going  to  take  you  away." 

Elizabeth  (rising  slowly)  :  "You — are  going  to  take 
her  away?" 

Ralph:  "Yes,  I've  been  selfish  long  enough,  dear 
Elizabeth — so  I'm  going  to  relieve  you  of  the  care  of 
Blanche." 

Elizabeth  (bitterly)  :  "Relieve  me  of  the  care  of 
Blanche — for  three  years  I've  been  father,  mother — all 
in  all  to  her.  My  life  has  been  wrapped  up  in  her  well- 
being  and  you  talk  of  relieving  me  of  her  care." 

Blanche:  "Oh,  papa,  you  don't  mean  to  take  me 
away?"  (Jumps  from  his  lap  and  runs  to  Elizabeth.) 
"I  never,  never  will  go  away  from  dear  auntie.  She 
must  come  with  us." 

Ralph  (rising)  :  "Elizabeth,  you  do  not  understand. 
Do  you  suppose  that  I  am  such  an  ungrateful  wretch 
that  I  do  not  appreciate  to  the  full  all  of  your  tender- 
ness and  love  for  my  motherless  baby  ?  But  I  must  go 
away.  I  cannot  live  here  and  you  cannot  come  with 
us." 

Elizabeth:  "No,  I  cannot  come  with  you.  All  my 
life  has  been  thus.  I  have  had  to  give  up  always  that 
which  my  heart  has  most  desired.  So  I  must  let  my 
darling  child  go." 

Ralph:  "Elizabeth,  I  did  not  know  you  would  feel 
so.  I  will  go  away  again." 

Blanche:  "No,  no,  papa  dear,  you  must  stay  here, 
or  auntie  must  go  with  us.  I  want  you  both." 

(Enter  Mammy  Liza,  humming)  "Come,  sinner, 
come  and  hear  your  doom" — (pauses — seeing  Ralph). 
"Fo'  de  Lawd's  sake,  ef  dar  ain't  Marse  Ralph.  Why, 
honey,  de  sight  of  yo'  am  good  fo'  sore  eyes,  and  how 
brown  yo'  is.  I  'spect  what  yo'  don't  know  'bout 
gografy  since  yo'  ben  travelin'  'round  so  much,  ain't 
worth  tellin',  am  it?" 

178 


(Exit  Elizabeth  followed  by  Blanche.) 

Ralph:  "Well,  I  don't  know,  Mammy,  I've  seen  a 
good  deal." 

Mammy  Liza:  "An'  now  you're  gwine  to  settle 
down  once  mo',  ain't  yo',  honey?" 

Ralph:     "Why,  yes,  Mammy,  I  came  for  Blanche." 

Mammy  Liza  (in  amazement) :  "Yo'  come  fo' 
Blanche?" 

Ralph:  "Yes,  I  feel  that  I've  taxed  Miss  Elizabeth's 
kindness  too  long." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Why,  Marse  Ralph,  yo'  certainly 
dun  got  yo'  brain  twisted  buzzin'  'round  dis  globe. 
Don'  yo'  know  it  would  bust  Miss  Lizabeth's  heart  ef 
yo'  took  away  dat  chile?" 

Ralph:  "Well,  what  am  I  to  do,  Mammy?  I  can't 
stay  here." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Why  can't  yo'  stay  heah,  Marse 
Ralph,  I'de  like  to  know?" 

Ralph:  "This  is  Miss  Elizabeth's  home,  and,  well, 
there  are  many  reasons,  Mammy." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Look  heah,  boy,  I've  knowed  yo'  a 
long  time,  why,  I  used  to  spank  yo'  when  yo'  Ma 
warn't  feelin'  well.  Now  I'm  gwine  to  tell  yo'  some- 
thin'.  Yo'  ain't  got  no  right  to  bust  Miss  Lizabeth's 
heart  twice." 

Ralph:     "Twice?     I  don't  understand,  Mammy." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Dis  yere  travelin'  do  sur'  have  a 
bad  effect.  'Member  a  little  story  I  used  to  tell  yo' 
when  yo'  was  a  boy  about  Bre'r  Mole  and  how  he  went 
a  travelin'  and  a  travelin's  in  search  of  a  wife  and  all 
the  time  there  was  a  neat,  little  mole  waitin'  fer  him 
at  home  but  he  couldn't  see  her  becase  he  was  too 
blind?" 

(Enter  Elizabeth.) 

Elizabeth :  "Mammy  Liza,  I  think  we  ought  to  have 
an  early  supper.  Ralph  must  be  very  tired." 

Mammy  Liza:  "Yes,  yes,  honey,  it's  most  ready. 
I  dun  forgot  everything  when  I  saw  Marse  Ralph." 

17O 


(Exits  singing) 

"Oh,  Lawd,  please  open  my  blind  eyes  and  help  me 
fer  to  see, 

Bar's  lots  of  good,  redeemin'  grace  awaitin'  round 
fer  me." 

Ralph:    "Elizabeth,  I  wonder  if  I've  been  blind?" 

Elizabeth :    "Blind !    I  don't  understand." 

Ralph:  "Elizabeth,  years  ago  I  believed  that  you 
were  to  be  my  wife,  then  we  quarreled  and  I  went 
away.  When  I  came  again,  the  other  Blanche  had 
grown  to  womanhood  and  you  had  become  indifferent, 
— you  held  me  aloof.  We  drifted  apart  and  then 
Blanche  and  I  were  married  and  when  Blanche  died 
I  brought  our  little  one  to  you.  Away  down  in  my 
heart  I  think  I  have  always  cared." 

Elizabeth:     "You  cannot  mean — " 

Ralph:  "I  mean  I've  always  cared  for  the  woman 
to  whom  my  first  vows  were  pledged." 

Elizabeth:  "Blanche  loved  you  and  I  thought  you 
no  longer  cared  for  me  and  so  I  hid  my  heart  from 
you." 

Ralph:  "Elizabeth,  do  you  mean  that  it  was  be- 
cause of  the  other  Blanche?" 

Elizabeth:     "Yes.     I  dared  not  break  her  heart." 

Ralph:    "And  you  have  always  cared?" 

Elizabeth :     "Always." 

Ralph  (putting  out  his  hands)  :  "And  you  will  come 
with  us — with  little  Blanche  and  me?" 

Elizabeth:     "Yes." 

(Mammy  Liza  opens  door  of  the  cottage  and  calls) 
"Supper." ' 

(Ralph  and  Elizabeth  are  standing  absorbed  in  one 
another  and  do  not  heed  her.) 

Mammy   Liza:     "Humph — 'pears   to   me   from  the 
signs  I  see  dat  Marse  Ralph  dun  got  his  second  sight 
and  dat  Miss  Lizabeth  dun  changed  her  opinion  and 
ain't  gwine  to  take  my  advice  'bout  marryin'." 
(Curtain.) 


"THE  BRIDE  AND  THE  HOMEMAKER." 

Of  course,  I  don't  say,  Bernice,  dearie,  that  I  know 
everything  about  servants  after  being  married  a  year, 
but  really,  dear,  I've  had  enough  experience,  in  twelve 
months,  of  the  awful  servant  question  to  fill  a  good- 
sized  book.  You  know  Rob  and  I  came  back  from  our 
honey-moon  all  enthusiastic  about  housekeeping. 
Help  yourself  to  chocolates,  honey,  and  curl  up  on  that 
sofa.  It's  so  jolly  to  see  you  again,  that  it  quite  livens 
one  up  and  seriously,  Bernice,  I've  been  worn  to  a 
frazzle  over  maids. 

Well,  as  I  said  before,  we  came  to  our  little  flat  and 
it  was  so  much  fun  arranging  our  lovely  gifts  that  life 
seemed  a  joy  until  Huldah  came.  Huldah  was  a  raw, 
green  product  just  over.  I  determined  to  take  a  green 
girl  and  teach  her  my  ways.  You  know  I  went  to 
cooking  school  and  I  thought  I  would  bring  up  a  girl 
in  the  way  she  should  go. 

Huldah  couldn't  understand  a  word  of  English  and 
I  thought  it  would  be  such  fun  to  teach  her.  Oh 
Heavens!  Such  a  time  as  I  had!  I  said  the  same 
words  over  and  over  until  I  began  to  converse  like  a 
Pre- Adamite  in  words  of  one  syllable,  or  like  a  Robin- 
son Crusoe  Book  for  Children.  Did  you  ever  try  to 
teach  a  green  girl  to  talk, — United  States  (Rob  calls 
it)  ?  Well,  don't,  dearie,  if  you  wish  to  retain  your 
own  mental  poise.  On  Huldah's  first  wash  day,  I  went 
down  into  the  laundry,  thinking  it  would  be  a  good 
time  for  an  English  lesson,  a  practical  demonstration, 
just  as  they  do  in  school. 

"Wash,  Huldah,"  said  I,  making  the  motion  of 
washing  and  repeating  the  action  several  times — 
"Wash"— "Wash."  She  kept  nodding  her  head  in 

181 


time  to  my  motions — "Jes" — "Jes" — until  I  thought 
she  thoroughly  understood. 

"Iron" — "Iron,  Huldah,"  I  said  again,  taking  the 
next  step  to  teach  the  two  together,  and  making  the 
motions  as  if  ironing.  "Iron" — "Iron." 

This  seemed  a  little  harder,  but  finally  a  ray  of  in- 
telligence came  into  the  blank  face.  A  smile  began  to 
creep  round  her  mouth  and  finally  lit  up  her  whole 
face — Rob  said  her  mouth  was  a  good  share  of  her 
face  anyhow.  She  nodded  like  a  Chinese  Mandarin — 
"Jes,  Jes,  Jes,"  she  said  over  and  over.  I  went  up- 
stairs quite  elated  at  my  success. 

That  night  Huldah's  cousin,  of  whom  she  was  very 
proud,  came  over.  Huldah's  cousin  had  been  in  this 
country  about  six  years  and  was  a  prodigy  of  learn- 
ing in  Huldah's  eyes.  For  a  long  time  I  heard  them 
jabbering  excitedly  in  Swedish.  Then  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  to  give  instructions  for  breakfast.  "Oh,  Mis' 
Curtees,"  said  Huldah's  cousin,  "Huldah  say  you  tell 
her  sometings  today." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  quite  pleased  with  myself,  "Hul- 
dah is  going  to  learn  fast,  I  think." 

"Jes,"  went  on  Huldah's  cousin,  "Huldah  say  you 
talk  much — you  so  kind,  an'  not  proud.  She  say  you 
tell  her  today  you  used  to  vork  in  a  laundry  vunce." 

Imagine  how  I  felt,  Bernice.  All  my  efforts  for 
nothing.  And  then  she  told  it  to  the  Swede  girl  down 
stairs  and  pretty  soon  it  was  repeated  all  over  the 
building  that  I  used  to  be  a  laundress.  Wasn't  that  the 
limit? 

Pass  those  chocolates,  piggie-wee,  don't  eat  them 
all.  I  need  a  bracer.  Well,  my  next  acquisition  was 
an  Irish  girl.  I  stopped  giving  English  lessons,  but  I 
didn't  better  myself.  I  must  confess,  Bernice,  I  stood 
a  little  bit  in  awe  of  her.  She  was  idle,  untidy  and  the 
most  domineering  thing!  When  I  told  how  I  wanted 
things  cooked,  what  do  you  think  she  said?  "Well, 
bedad!  If  ye  know  so  much  aboot  cookin'  why  don't 

182 


ye  do  it  yerself  ?"  And  when  I'd  tell  her  how  to  sweep 
and  dust  or  make  a  bed,  she'd  say,  with  a  toss  of  her 
head,  "I  don't  see  as  how  my  way  ain't  as  good  as 
your'n." 

At  last  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer  and  so  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  to  dismiss  her. 

"Mary  Ann,"  I  said,  very  gently,  "I  think  it  will  be 
better  for  me  to  get  another  girl." 

"God  knows,"  said  she  in  her  loud  way,  "that's 
phwat  I've  been  thinkin'  mesilf  fur  some  time.  I'm 
glad  ye've  coom  to  your  sinses.  There  sure  wurruk 
enough  fur  two  of  us." 

What  could  I  do,  Bernice?  I  went  away  without 
saying  another  word.  When  Rob  came  home  I  told 
him  all  about  it  and  he  said,  "The  idea  of  letting  a  girl 
walk  all  over  you — I'll  dismiss  her  myself,"  and  he 
stalked  into  the  kitchen.  I  don't  know  exactly  what 
happened,  Bernice,  but  presently  I  heard  loud  voices 
and  Rob  came  through  the  swinging  door — well,  I 
won't  say  he  was  running  but  he  hurried  a  little  and 
Mary  Ann  was  after  him,  a  dish  towel  in  her  hand 
and  her  eyes  flashing  till  they  looked  like  sparks  of 
fire. 

"Is  it  firin'  me  ye're  tryin',  ye  measly  little  shrimp," 
she  cried,  to  Rob,  too,  Bernice,  and  you  know  he's  so 
handsome  all  the  girls  were  crazy  about  him  before  I 
got  him.  Of  course  he  isn't  very  big,  but  then  he's 
awfully  strong,  you  know. 

Well,  she  went  on:  "Fire  me,  will  ye?  Why  even  a 
really  truly  mon  couldn't  fire  me,  much  liss  you,  ye 
little  tadpole." 

I  thought,  Bernice,  that  Rob  showed  he  was  a  per- 
fect gentleman,  when  he  restrained  himself  and  didn't 
answer  her  back.  He  has  an  awfully  strong  character, 
Rob  has. 

Well,  she  glared  at  both  of  us.  "Ye  ain't  firin'  me, 
I'm  givin'  ye  two  little  fools  notice.  Out  I  goes  to- 
morrow, wid  me  full  wake's  pay." 

183      • 


And  do  you  know,  my  dear,  manly  Rob  gave  it  to 
her  without  a  word  in  order  to  save  me  from  any 
further  talk.    Wasn't  it  lovely  of  him?     He's  always 
so  thoughtful. 

Bernice,  I  was  so  disgusted  with  girls  after  that,  I 
did  my  own  work  for  a  day  or  two  until  Rob  said  I'd 
spoil  "these  dear,  little  hands."  Maybe  that  sounds 
silly  to  you,  Bernice,  but  it  didn't  to  me,  really.  Then 
I  heard  that  girls  from  Finland  were  good,  but  scarce, 
so  I  'phoned  the  intelligence  office  for  a  Finnish  girl. 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  specimen  they  sent  me. 
I  should  think  they  were  scarce — and  Rob  says  it's 
lucky  they  are.  Her  face  was  as  expressionless  as  a 
rag  doll's. 

"Can  you  cook?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  replied,  laconically. 

"Wash?"  "No."  "Iron?"  "No."  "Sweep,  dust, 
do  general  house-work?"  "No." 

"Well,  why  in  the  world  did  they  send  you?  What 
in  creation  can  you  do?"  I  asked  in  desperation. 

Bernice,  darling,  what  do  you  think  she  said? 

"I  can  milk  a  goat." 

Of  all  things!  Milk  a  goat!  One  would  think  we 
lived  on  the  side  of  a  Swiss  mountain  and  herded  goats 
for  a  living. 

Have  another  chocolate,  dear.  Don't  you  want  more 
pillows  at  your  back?  Comfy,  are  you? 

Well,  then,  Bernice,  I  tried  a  lady  of  color  who  went 
home  every  night  and  came  back  when  she  pleased. 
"Shuah's  de  sun  sets  in  de  heavens,  honey,  I'se  gwine 
to  be  heah  tomorrow,"  and  when  she  appeared  after 
the  second  day,  she  would  say,  "Why,  baby,  my  ole 
man  was  so  sick  we  done  thought  he'd  croak,  an'  I 
couldn't  leave  him,  nohow.  Yo'  know  yo'  loves  yo' 
husban',  honey,  an'  it's  right — he's  sech  a  gran',  fine 
man.  An*  you're  pretty  nuff  to  eat,  chile.  You'd  look 
after  yo'  husban',  honey,  an'  I  has  to  look  after  my  ole 
man.  I  does  fo'  sho." 

184 


She  stole  so  many  things  that  Rob  said  her  house 
must  look  more  familiar  and  home-like  than  ours. 

What  are  we  doing  now?  Oh,  eating  at  the  cafe 
next  door  and  bracing  ourselves  for  the  incoming  of 
the  next  homemaker. 


185 


THE  QUARREL. 

I  didn't,  no  I  didn't! 

At's  des  an  orful  fib, 
For  you  to  go  a  sayin' 

At  I  jabbed  you  in  de  rib. 

I  tan  prove  it  all  by  Lucy, 

For  she  tood  yight  by  my  side. 

You  des  tended  to  be  hurted, 
When  you  hollered  out  an'  cried. 

I  didn't!  didn't!  didn't!  ! 

An'  I  wisht  you'd  let  me  be. 
Well,  anyways  den  ef  I  did, 

You  did  worser  'n  at  to  me. 


A  COLONIAL   DREAM. 

Scene. — Interior. — Large  'frame  for  picture,  within 
which  stands  a  young  girl  in  Colonial  costume.  Screen 
in  front  of  frame. 

Cast  of  Characters : 

Lionel   Wellman/  Nancy  White. 

Penelope  Prim.  Sally  Wister. 

Peggy  Shippen.  Becky  Brown. 

Anne  Wharton.  Constance  Gary. 

Mistress  Suzanna  Love. 

Enter  Lionel  Wellman  in  Colonial  costume. 

Lionel  (mincing  about)  :  "Well,  here  I  am,  togged 
out  in  this  array  for  Mrs.  Moneybags'  Colonial  Ball. 
Really,  I  feel  rather  foolish  in  ruffles  and  satin,  al- 
though the  chaps  of  those  days  were  by  no  means 
effeminate.  Sturdy  boys,  they  were,  who  freed  this 
land  of  ours,  Washington,  Adams  and  all  the  bunch. 
Pardon  me,  Colonial  gentlemen,  for  using  a  modern 
'slang  phrase  in  connection  with  your  honored  names. 
Courtly  old  boys  they  were  in  those  days.  I  wonder 
if  the  dress  did  not  have  something  to  do  with  it  ?  Put 
on  a  sweater  and  a  fellow  feels  like  tennis,  or  golf; 
don  evening  clothes  and  one  assumes  society  airs  im- 
mediately, while  this  Colonial  dress  makes  a  chap  feel 
like  bowing  and  scraping  with  old  time  courtly  dig- 
nity. Let's  see,  we  are  to  dance  tonight."  (Hums — 
La-la-la  to  Mozart's  minuet,  dancing  a  few  steps  and 
bowing  to  the  measure — pauses.)  "Ah!  If  I  only  had 
my  charming  little  picture  girl  as  a  vis-a-vis — " 
(Goes  to  screen  and  takes  it  away.)  "There  you  are, 

1ST 


my  little  lady,  as  dainty  as  ever.  Now  if  I  could  find 
a  girl  like  you,  they  would  never  accuse  me  of  being 
heart  free.  I  think  that's  the  reason  these  up-to-date 
girls  don't  suit  me.  I  have  your  sweet  image  en- 
shrined within  my  heart."  (Sits  and  looks  at  picture.) 
"There  you  are,  just  as  you  looked  when  my  great, 
great  uncle  fell  in  love  with  you  during  the  Revolu- 
tionary days.  You  must  have  been  a  sad  flirt,  Penel- 
ope, dear,  for  that  was  your  name,  'Penelope  Prim,' 
though  you  certainly  don't  look  'prim,'  sweetheart. 
They  said  you  threw  my  uncle  over  in  that  auld 
lang  syne  and  it  broke  his  heart,  for  he  never  married. 
You  didn't  know,  did  you,  that  he  painted  this 
picture  of  you  from  memory  and  left  it  to  my  grand- 
father. Well,  I  don't  blame  him  for  the  broken  heart ; 
I  think  you've  bewitched  me,  little  girl.  The  up-to- 
date  lassies  don't  stand  much  show — I  always  come 
back  to  the  face  and  the  rose  and  the  sweet  slim  form 
in  the  frame,  and  somehow  the  others  don't  satisfy 
me — Hark!  (Song  heard  outside — (Song) — 'Maybe, 
I  was  meant  for  you,  dear.'*  (Goes  to  window.)  (At 
close  of  song) — "Yes,  maybe  I  was  meant  for  you, 
dear,  oh,  what  a  pity  I  didn't  live  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  or  that  you  are  not  a  girl  of  today.  No,  I 
don't  mean  that,  for  then  you  wouldn't  really  be  you." 
(Rises.)  "What  nonsense!  I  said  the  clothes  had 
an  effect  on  a  fellow — here  I  am  romancing  and  for- 
getting all  about  the  ball.  Let's  see,  what  time  it 
is — "  (Looks  at  his  watch,  which  lays  on  the  table.) 
"Oh!  I've  plenty  of  time,  believe  I'll  take  a  nap.  It 
will  be  the  wee  sma'  hours  of  the  morning  before  I 
get  home  again."  (Drops  down  on  couch  and  falls 
asleep.) 

(One  verse  of  the  song  sung  outside.) 
(Maid  in  the  picture  comes  slowly  to  life  and  steps 
from  the  frame.) 

*Song-  composed  by  Oilman  M.  Parker. 

188 


Penelope:  "Dear!  dear!  How  strange  I  feel.  I 
must  have  been  asleep.  Yes,  yes,  I  remember;  I  sat 
in  this  big  chair,  pouting  and  lonely  because  this  hor- 
rid war  takes  all  the  men  away  and  leaves  us  only 
girls — no  parties — balls — and  only  girls!  Dearie  me! 
dearie  me!  I  am  so  weary  of  petticoats,  Mistress 
Suzanna  says  I  am  not  patriotic.  Of  course  I  want  to 
be  free  and  our  country  needs  the  men,  but  oh,  I  am 
so  tired  of  this  house,  full  of  girls,  and  I  know  they  are 
tired  of  me.  Oh,  for  the  sight  of  a  dear  uniform  with 
a  man  in  it!  I  believe — I  wouldn't  dare  to  whisper 
it — that  I  could  flirt  with  a  British  officer!  What 
treason!  While  the  dear  men  are  away  fighting  the 
women  ought  to  be  at  home  weeping  and  praying,  but 
then  one  can't  weep  all  the  time,  and  I  suppose  it's 
sacrilegious,  but  I've  prayed  every  prayer  in  the 
prayer-book  over  and  over  again.  Mistress  Suzanna 
says  I'm  a  sad  flirt,  but  then — Mistress  Suzanna  is  old 
and  she  really  would  accept  any  man  that  asked  her 
to  marry  him,  but  I  haven't  found  the  right  one. 
Heigho!"  (Rises.)  "Well,  I  must  be  patient  until 
all  of  the  weighty  questions  have  been  settled,  I  sup- 
pose." (Walks  to  couch — pauses  and  gazes  at  Lio- 
nel.) "Why !  what  is  this  ?  It  is — yes — it  is  a  man — 
I'm  afraid  I'm  still  asleep."  (Touches  Lionel  gently.). 
"Oh,  sir,  are  you  really  a  man?"  (Lionel  wakens  and 
sits  up.)  "Great  Scott!  It's  late — I  must  go.  (Sees 
Penelope.)  "Pardon  me,  Madame."  (Stops.)  "Pen- 
elope!" 

Pen.  (curtseying) :  "  'Tis  I,  good  Sir,  and  pray 
how  did  you  know  my  name?" 

Lionel :  "Your  name !  Why,  I've  known  it  always, 
1  think — but  you — you  belong  in  the  frame  or  I  must 
be  dreaming.  But  I  hope  I  won't  wake  up." 

Pen.:  "You,  Sir. — How  did  you  reach  Mountview 
— By  the  village  coach  or  did  you  come  on  horseback? 
And  are  you  not  the  new  tutor?  I'll  call  the  girls." 

Lionel:     "No,  no,  don't  call  the  girls — That  is — not 

189 


yet."  (Aside.)  I  wonder  what  I  ate  for  dinner  and 
what  DID  I  drink.  Claret  never  affected  me  before. 
The  dream's  all  right,  though."  (To  Pen.)  "Wait  a 
minute,  until  I  dismiss  the  chauffeur,  I  hired  the  ma- 
chine, you  know,  and  they  will  run  up  the  bill  on  me. 
I  don't  care  about  going  to  Mrs.  Moneybags'  ball  any- 
how." 

Pen.:  "Oh,  don't  go — Good  Sir— I'll  call  the  maid 
and  she'll  dismiss  the  coach." 

Lionel:  "No,  no,  not  the  coach — the  'auto' — the 
machine— you  know." 

Pen.  (looking  mystified)  :  "  'Auto' — machine — 
Good  Sir,  I  do  not  understand." 

Lionel:  "Why  the  big  motor  car,  you  know — the 
touring  car — gasoline — that  makes  the  noise — chew! 
chew !  honk !  honk !  Perhaps  you  don't  happen  to  own 
one." 

Pen.:  "Poor  man."  (Taps  her  forehead.)  "He's 
not  quite  right — but  he's  very  sweet  and  then  he  is  a 
man." 

Lionel :  "Well,  never  mind — the  car.  Let  the  man 
wait  and  if  I  go,  you  might  disappear  and  I  might 
wake  up.  By  the  way,  what  did  you  ask  me  just  now 
— if  I  were  the  new  tutor — your  tutor,  you  mean?" 

Pen.:  "Yes — you  see  this  is  a  school  for  young 
ladies,  kept  by  Mistress  Suzanna  Love,  wherein  we 
learn  to  dance,  play  on  the  spinnet,  speak  French — 
Italian — in  fact,  are  finished  quite  when  we  are 
through,  and  ready  to  take  up  the  'serious'  side  of  life, 
as  Miss  Suzanna  says." 

Lionel:  "And  I'm  to  be  your  teacher?"  (Aside.) 
"Oh,  joy." 

Pen.  (curtseying) :  "Yes,  gentle  Sir.  You  see 
this  house  is  in  a  lonely  and  deserted  spot  and  as  the 
men  have  gone  to  war,  Mistress  Suzanna  felt  that  a 
man  would  be  a  protection,  although  in  former  times  to 
have  introduced  a  man  into  our  midst  would  have  set 

190 


her  curls  to  bobbing  with  horror  at  the  thought:  but 
you,  Good  Sir,  you  look  quite  harmless." 

Lionel:     "Harmless!   You   are   complimentary." 

Pen. :  "Of  a  truth,  Sir — surely  you  would  not  harm 
a  helpless  maid  like  me?"  (Goes  up  to  him.) 

Lionel :  "Harm  you !  You  darling — "  (puts  his  arm 
about  her). 

Pen.:     "Sir!" 

Lionel  (with  a  bow)  :  "I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons, 
Mademoiselle,  but  I  couldn't  help  it,  you  know,  you 
are  so  charming,  so  irresistible,  and  I've  loved  you  so 
long." 

Pen.  (drawing  closer)  :  "Would  you  mind,  gentle 
Sir,  repeating  the  last  words — I  did  not  catch  them 
quite." 

Lionel:  "I  said  that  you  were  charming  and — and 
that  I  had  loved  you  so  long." 

Pen. :  "It  is  a  really,  truly  man  and  I'm  not  dream- 
ing!" 

Lionel:  "Well,  I  think  I  am,  but  it's  all  right.  I 
don't  want  to  wake  up.  By  the  way — when  do  the 
lessons  begin?  Let's  see,  can  you  conjugate  Love?" 

Pen.:     "Is  it  very  difficult,  gentle  Sir?" 

Lionel:  "Oh,  no — not  always.  That  depends,  you 
know.  I  think  I  can  teach  you  very  quickly.  First 
take  the  positions."  (Goes  to  her  side.)  "Then  say, 
'I  love.'" 

Pen:     "I  love." 

Lionel:     "Darling—" 

Pen. :     "Darling—" 

Lionel:  "Well,  that  isn't  in  the  conjugation,  but 
it  is  a  very  excellent  addition."  "Thou  lovest — " 

Pen:     "Thou  lovest." 

Lionel:  "He  loves."  (Aside.)  "He  does  all 
right." 

Pen.:     "He  loves." 

Lionel:     "We  love— (Oh!  if  we  only  did.)" 

Pen.:     "We  love— (Oh!  if  we  only  did.)" 

191 


Lionel:     "You  love—" 

Pen. :     "You  love—" 

Lionel  (dropping  on  one  knee  and  taking  her  hand)  : 
"They  love—" 

Pen.:  "They  love —  "I  think  this  is  a  lovely  les- 
son." 

(Enter  Mistress  Suzanna,  gives  a  shriek.) 

Mistress  S. :     "What  do  mine  eyes  behold?  A  man?" 

Pen.  (curtesying) :  "Please,  dear  Mistress  Suz- 
anna, 'tis  the  new  tutor  and  he  was  giving  me  a  les- 
son." 

Miss.  S.  "The  new  tutor?  Alas!  Have  I  intro- 
duced a  viper  into  my  household?" 

Lionel :  "Now.  I  am  a  VIPER — Behold,  it  biteth 
like  a  serpent."  "Now  I  know  I  didn't  have  but  one 
glass  of  claret.  I  wonder  what  I  ate?  Well,  I'm  in 
for  it."  (Bows  to  Mistress  Suzanna.)  "Madame,  I 
am  not  a  viper — I  am  the  new  tutor,  I  believe.  I 
don't  know  what  I  am  to  tute — pardon  me,  I  mean 
teach,  but  I'm  ready  to  do  the  best  I  can  and  I'll  pro- 
tect you  while  this  cruel  war  rages  in  the  country 
around."  (Aside.)  "There,  I  guess  I  said  that  all 
right.  Penelope  said  there  was  a  war." 

Miss.  S. :  "Mistress  Penelope,  you  may  leave  the 
room." 

Lionel:  "Hold  on — I  mean,  wait  Madame —  I 
haven't  finished  the  lesson." 

Miss.  S. :  "The  lesson  was  quite  finished."  Leave 
the  room,  Mistress  Penelope,  and  bid  the  young 
ladies  come  to  me." 

Pen.:     (curtsies  and  leaves  the  room.) 

Lionel:  "And  I'm  to  be  left  alone  with  THAT. 
I  wonder  if  I  severed  an  artery  if  I  would  come  to." 

Miss.  S. :     "And  so,  Sir  you  have  arrived." 

Lionel :     "Why,  yes — I  think  I'm  here." 

Miss  S :     "And  you  are  a  man." 

Lionel:     "That  seems  to  be  the  general  opinion," 

Miss.  S. :     "Sir,  I  throw  myself  and  my  young  ladies 

102 


upon  your  manly  protection."  (Goes  to  him  and  leans 
against  him.) 

Lionel :     "This  tutoring  business  has  its  drawbacks." 

Miss.  S.  (weeping)  :  "We  are  only  weak  women 
and  must  be  protected." 

Lionel:  ("Great  Scott!  She's  turned  on  the  ar- 
tesian well.")  "Madame,  these  are  tears,  idle  tears. 
I  used  to  play  half-back  on  our  college  team,  and  I 
guess  you  can  all  lean  on  me  all  right.  How  many 
are  there?" 

Miss.  S.:  "You  have  taken  a  load  from  my 
mind.  In  these  troublous  times  one  never  knows 
what  might  happen.  At  any  moment  these  hated 
British  may  invade  these  sacred  premises,  wherein 
dwell  modesty,  virtue  and  frailty,  guised  in  the  form 
of  these  innocent  girls  entrusted  to  my  care.  Wash- 
ington and  his  brave  men  are  far  away,  but  I  feel  safe 
with  you  near  by."  (Leans  against  him  again.) 

Lionel  (aside)  :  "I  •wish  'Suzanna'  were  not  quite  so 
confiding." 

Miss  S. :     "Oh,  how  safe  I  feel." 

Lionel:  "Yes,  you  are  perfectly  safe — but  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  for  me  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  pupils." 

(Enter  young  ladies,  in  Colonial  costume,  all  talk- 
ing at  once.) 

Lionel  (aside)  :     "Oh,  girls,  you've  saved  my  life." 

Miss.  S.  (Who  hastily  left  Lionel  at  the  entrance 
of  the  girls)  :  "Young  ladies,  decorum — decorum — I 
wish  to  introduce  the  new  tutor — Your  name?" 

Lionel  (bowing  in  Colonial  fashion) :  "Mr.  Lio- 
nel Wellman,  at  your  service,  Madam."  (The  girls 
whisper  and  gaze  admiringly  at  Lionel.) 

Miss.  S.:  "Mr.  Lionel  Wellman,  young  ladies." 
(All  pass  before  him  curtseying.) 

Lionel.  "Well,  this  tutoring  business  is  looking 
up." 

ins 


Miss.  S. :  "Young  ladies.  I  must  leave  you  for  a 
short  time." 

Lionel  (aside)  :     "How  sorry  I  am !" 

Miss  S.:  "Mr.  Lionel  Wellman,  you  may  give  the 
young  ladies  a  lesson  in  French — you  speak  French, 
of  course. 

Lionel:  "Certainly."  (To  audience.)  ("Don't 
know  a  word  of  it.") 

Miss  S. :  "I  prefer  that  you  do  not  instruct  them 
in  English  grammar." 

(Exit  Miss.  S.) 
(Girls  all  begin  to  talk  and  giggle.) 

Peggy:     "Isn't   he    charming?" 

Anne :     "Oh,  to  see  a  man  once  more !  What  joy"' 

Nancy:     "Let's  begin  the  lessons  at  once." 

Becky:  "Is  he  French?"  (Curtseying  to  Lionel.) 
"Monsieur  Lionel  Wellman,  notre  maitre  Francais, 
que  faut — il  faire  pour  prendre  le  Francais?  Faut  il 
etudier  beaucoup — beaucoup  Monsieur?" 

Lionel:     "Gee!  What  am  I  up  against?" 

Becky:  "Combien  de  temps  y-at-il  que  vous  etes 
ici?" 

Lionel:     "Oui,  oui." 

Becky:     "Vous  etes  grand — vous  etes  joli." 

Lionel :     "Oui — oui — tres   beans." 

Becky:  "Vous  etes  magnifique.  Vous  etes  un 
homme  si  brave — Si  adorable,  Monsieur." 

Lionel  (looking  mystified  and  growing  nervous) : 
"Why,  yes,  of  course — I  agree  with  you  perfectly." 
(Aside)  :  "I  wonder  what  in  the  name  of  common 
sense  she  said?" 

Becky  (to  the  girls)  :  "I  don't  believe  he  under- 
stood a  word,  but  don't  tell  Mistress  Suzanna  or  she 
might  send  him  away." 

Constance :  "Well,  we  don't  want  a  French  lesson, 
anyhow." 

Lionel:  "That  girl  is  a  jewel.  French  lessons  are 
very  wearing  on  the  nerves,  young  ladies.  You  look 

194 


very  pale  —  I  think  you  need  some  exercise.     What  do 
you  say  to  a  dance?" 

All:     "Yes,  yes,  a  dance." 

Lionel  (aside)  :  "How  lucky  I  learned  the  minuet 
for  Mrs.  Moneybags'  Colonial  Ball!" 

Penelope:     "Gentle  Sir,  will  you  dance  the  minuet?" 

Lienel:  "With  pleasure.  May  I  have  you  as  my 
vis-a-vis?"  . 

(Music.     Minuet  is   danced.) 
(At  close  of  minuet  enter  Miss  Suzanna.) 

Miss  S.  :  "Young  ladies!  !  (all  pause)  "I  am  amazed 
at  such  frivolity.  Our  country  is  in  the  midst  of  war 
and  men  are  dying  all  about  us.  I  did  not  engage  Mr. 
Lionel  Wellman  to  amuse  you  in  this  manner.  Mr. 
Lionel  Wellman,  did  you  not  say  that  you  were  a 
tutor?" 

Lionel:  "Yes,  Madame,  I  am  a  teacher  of  physical 
culture.  We  were  just  having  a  lesson," 

Miss  S.:  "Mr.  Lionel  Wellman,  you  are  a  base 
impostor." 

Lionel:  "Well,  I'm  quite  aware  of  that  fact,  Ma- 
dame, but  I  wanted  to  be  agreeable  and  every  one 
seemed  to  insist  that  I  was  the  new  tutor,  so  I  agreed. 
I  never  contradict  the  ladies,  you  know." 

Miss  S.  (pointing  her  finger  tragically  at  him)  :  "Mr. 
Lionel  Wellman  —  Listen  —  You  are  a  British  spy." 
(The  girls  shriek  and  cling  together.) 
A  British  spy 


Sally:     "We  shall  all  of  us  be  murdered." 

Nancy:     "And  he  looks  so  innocent." 

Anne  :     "Dear  me  !  Dear  me  !" 

Lionel:  "Madame,  I  never  was  in  London  in  my 
life." 

Miss  S.:  "Sir,  do  not  attempt  subterfuge.  It  will 
be  of  no  avail.  This  dispatch  was  sent  me  by  Wash- 
ington, saying  that  a  British  spy  had  been  traced  to 
the  confines  of  Mountview.  Even  now  the  troops  are 
on  the  way  to  effect  your  capture.  I  am  but  a  weak 


1O5 


woman,  but  you  will  only  leave  this  room  over  my  dead 
body." 

Lionel  (aside)  :  "Well,  there  are  always  compensa- 
tions. That  might  help  some." 

Miss  S.     "Young  ladies,  guard  the  doors." 
(The  girls  go  to  the  doors.) 

Lionel:  "This  dream  is  taking  the  form  of  a  night- 
mare. I'm  liable  to  be  hung  before  I  wake  up." 
"Madame,  did  this  dispatch  come  by  the  Western 
Union  or  the  Postal  Telegraph?" 

Miss  S. :  ("He  talks  in  riddles  to  gain  time.  He  is 
a  dangerous  character.")  "This  dispatch  came  by  a 
trusty  messenger  with  foam-flecked  horse  and  dust- 
begrimmed  coat." 

Lionel  (eagerly)  :  "It  wasn't  Paul  Revere,  was  it? 
Because  Paul  and  I  are  old  friends.  He  might  use  his 
influence  in  my  behalf.  Why,  I  used  to  have  Paul's 
picture  in  my  reader  at  school." 

Miss  S. :  "This  attempted  show  of  insanity  will  not 
aid  you,  sir-^I  will  bind  your  arms  with  this  rope.  If 
you  resist  or  attempt  to  escape,  these  maidens  and  I 
will  rush  out  and  scream  down  the  highway  until  we 
reach  the  on-coming  troops." 

Lionel  (aside)  :  "Well,  I'm  in  a  bad  fix,  but  I'd 
like  to  have  a  kodak  of  Suzanna  screaming  down  the 
highway." 

Pen.:  "This  is  an  outrage.  I  do  not  believe  a 
gentleman  so  kind  and  well  spoken  withal  is  a  spy." 

Lionel :  "Thank  you,  dear  Penelope,  for  your  sweet 
faith  in  me." 

Miss  S. :  "Dear  Penelope !  How  dare  you  ad- 
dress this  young  lady  in  this  manner — and  you,  you 
saucy  chit,  leave  the  room;  your  father  shall  hear  of 
this." 

Pen.:  "I  will  not  obey  you,  Madame.  I  insist  you 
have  no  right  to  bind  this  sweet  gentleman.  He  is  no 
traitor  to  our  country,  I  am  sure." 

Lionel:     "Thanks,  dear  Penelope,  but  I  pray  you, 

100 


do  as  Mistress  Suzanna  bids  you.     Do  not  incur  her 
displeasure  on  my  account." 

(Exit  Penelope.) 

Lionel:  "Madame,  I  never  resist  the  ladies,  come 
bind  me  if  you  so  desire." 

^Mistress  Suzanna  binds  his  arms  and  he  sits  in  a 
chair.) 

Miss  S. :  "Young  ladies,  you  may  go.  Such  sights 
are  not  for  your  young  eyes." 

(Exit  girls.) 

Lionel:  "I  wish  Suzanna  were  afraid  of  her  own 
eyesight." 

(The  girls  peep  in  at  the  doorway.  Miss  Suzanna 
sees  them  and  hurries  first  to  one  door,  then  to  the 
other.  The  girls  disappear.) 

Miss  S.:  (runs  to  door  and  looks  about — draws 
chair  close  to  Lionel.)  "Oh,  sweet  sir,  pardon  my 
harshness  before  the  young  ladies,  but  'twas  my  duty 
to  my  country.  Sweet  Sir,  though  you  may  be  a  spy 
I  pity  you.  Alas!  I  am  only  a  frail  woman."  (Lays 
her  head  on  his  shoulder.) 

Lionel:  "I  am  quite  willing  to  die  now  for  my 
country — the  troops  cannot  come  too  soon  to  suit  me." 

(Girls  come  to   door    and    see    Mistress   Suzanna, 
whisper  and  point  to  her  and  to  Lionel.) 
(Enter  Anne.) 

Anne:     "Mistress  Suzanna,  the  troops  are  coming." 

(Miss  S.  jumps  up.) 

Miss  S. :     "Yes,  yes,  I'll  come  in  a  moment." 
(Exit  Anne.) 

Miss  S. :     "Darling,  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

Lionel:     "Pray  don't  hurry  back  on  my  account." 
(Exit  Mistress  Suzanna.) 
(Enter  girls  in  twos.) 

Nancy  and  Becky :     "Good  sir,  we're  very  sorry." 
(Curtseying  and  then  exit.) 

Peggy  and  Sally:  (Come  to  Lionel,  curtesy  and 
sigh  audibly.)  (Exit.) 

197 


Constance  and  Anne:  (Curtsey  and  weep  aloud.) 
(Exit.) 

Lionel:  "Well,  I  seem  to  have  a  few  friends  left. 
I  hope  they'll  put  up  a  nice  tombstone." 

(Enter  Penelope.  Slips  up  to  Lionel  and  cuts  the 
rope.) 

Penelope:  "Now,  gentle  Sir,  you  are  free — come, 
I  will  show  you  a  way  of  escape,  but  don't  forget  little 
Pen.  when  you  are  away." 

Lionel:  "Forget  you,  sweetheart!  I'll  never  go 
away." 

Pen.:     "Yes,  yes,  you  MUST  go." 

Lionel :  "But  not  until  you've  told  me  the  one  thing 
I  want  to  hear.  You  are  mine,  little  girl — " 

Pen.:     "I  am  yours." 

Lionel:     "For  all  time?" 

Pen.:     "For  all  time." 

(As  they  talk  Pen.  goes  slowly  to  the  frame  and 
Lionel  goes  back  slowly  toward  the  couch — drops 
down,  falls  asleep.  Song  is  sung  outside.  Lionel 
awakens- — calls) : 

"Penelope,  Penelope,  where  am  I?  Oh,  yes,  I  fell 
asleep;  it  must  be  late.  Great  heavens,  what  a  dream 
I  had,  or  was  it  a  dream?  The  sweet  little  girl,  surely 
she  was  real." 

(Chorus  of  song  outside.) 

"Ah,  Pen.  dear,"  (rises  and  goes  to  the  picture,  drop- 
ping on  one  knee).  "You're  only  a  picture,  but  you've 
stolen  my  heart." 

(Curtain.) 


ins 


SIP 


The  Library  of 
DAVID    FREEDMAN 


BOOK  NO. 


